


Laeti Triumphantes

by Chash



Series: Holiday Fills 2015 [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Holidays, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:52:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 56
Words: 90,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5331482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of gift fics from Tumblr! Definitely gonna be like 95% Bellarke modern AUs, just saying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> I like to ask for prompts to fill in December because gift fic is my jam, so expect a bunch of these to show up over the course of December. If you want them ASAP, they're posting first to [my holiday Tumblr](http://chasholidays.tumblr.com/), so follow that. Otherwise I'll probably throw them up after work most days.
> 
> I'm assuming these are Bellarke by default (because they are), but if you're looking for a non-Bellarke tagged pairing, check the chapter title, I will put it in there.
> 
> Also, a final, special note: I'm doing like seventy of these this month, which is tons of fun! But also means that these are not long fics. So please do me a favor and refrain from leaving comments telling me any of these fills should be longer, or you really want more, or I should do a sequel. These are, by necessity, one- to two-thousand word fics, and hearing that they should be longer is always kind of a bummer for me. I appreciate the sentiment! Just please don't share it with me <3 
> 
> Happy December!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Clarke wakes up after a night out in a different bed and has no idea what happened the night before. Then Octavia bursts into the room and Clarke immediately thinks that she slept with her but it turns out it was Bellamy, the other Blake in the apartement. awkward Clarke/Octavia conversation and a good old laugh from Bellamy. thank you in advance :) 
> 
> For [bxllamyblake](http://bxllamyblake.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke isn’t, as a rule, the type who wakes up in the morning not remembering what she did the previous night. What she is, though, is the type whose memory comes back kind of slowly, like she’ll be brushing her teeth and suddenly have a vivid flashback to dancing on a table with Raven or arguing with some guy about women’s soccer. She always gets the whole night back eventually, but it can take a while.  
  
So when she wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, she just sort of figures she’ll wing it until she figures out exactly what’s going on. She is an excellent improviser.  
But that plan goes to hell in roughly five minutes, when Octavia Blake bursts into the room and  _grins_. “Oh, hi, Clarke! You’re still here!”

Clarke and Octavia aren’t that close, but they’re kind of friends. Unfortunately, they met because Clarke’s friend Lincoln has a crush on her and has been trying to figure out how to ask her out for months. So while there are probably worse people for her to have drunkenly hooked up with–like people who are actually  _married_  to her friends–it’s still almost the worst case scenario.

“Oh, um–hi, Octavia.” She sits up, pulling the sheets with her. Just because Octavia has seen her breasts once doesn’t mean she has to do it again. It can be a one-time thing. “Yeah, I just woke up. I’ll, um–I’ll get out of your hair, sorry, I–”

“No, no! You should stay. You want breakfast, right? Of course you want breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.”

“Um.”

“Here’s your bra,” says Octavia, tossing it in Clarke’s general direction.

“Thanks.” She wets her lips. “I, um–this is–” There isn’t really anything good to say that she can think of. The damage is done; she fucked Octavia Blake, and she’s looking forward to remembering exactly what happened, because Lincoln has great taste in women. Octavia is  _hot_. But it should not have happened, and she can’t just hang out for breakfast. “I should leave,” she finally says.

“No way! Come on, stay. I insist.”

She wets her lips. “Listen, um, last night was amazing, but I can’t–this isn’t–it was just a one-time thing, right?” Octavia’s face falls, and Clarke feels like the absolute worst person to have ever lived. “No, no, you’re–god, you’re awesome, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t–” She rubs her hand over her face. “Lincoln really likes you, so if I ever–he’d never  _say_ anything, but he’d be so sad, and I couldn’t–”

And then, Octavia starts  _laughing_ , which kind of sucks, honestly. Octavia always seemed pretty cool; it seemed like she’d understand that this situation is awful all around. Clarke was honestly hoping that she’d be psyched about the Lincoln thing, but, nope. Clarke has ruined his life.

“Clarke,” says Octavia, when she recovers. “Have you, like, looked around? Or just tried to remember last night?”

She frowns, because she hasn’t really checked out her surroundings at all; she’s been busy. It’s a room; there are bookshelves, a desk, some posters, a dresser. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about it, and she’s not sure what Octavia’s expecting her to figure out from this.

“I remember last night,” she says, petulant.

“Yeah, sure, you–”

“O, Jesus, don’t be a dick,” Clarke hears, and then Bellamy Blake is pushing his sister out of the room and looking at Clarke through his eyelashes, sheepish, with his messy curls tangling over his forehead. 

As soon as she sees him, it clicks: the room looks way more like Bellamy’s than Octavia’s.

Clarke doesn’t know Bellamy that well. He tags along with Octavia the same way she tags along with Lincoln, and they’ll usually bicker and get overly competitive about weird bar games and, okay, flirt a little, every now and then. He’s hot and sometimes, when they’re out, they’ll meet some other asshole who’s so wrong they have to ally themselves to destroy him, and that’s actually her favorite thing.

And that’s when she gets her first concrete memory of last night, her and Bellamy annihilating a dude who was complaining about state-funded welfare, and then he bought her a drink, and–

“Oh,” she says, soft.

“Sorry about Octavia,” he says, lingering in the door, clearly nervous. “She’s, uh–yeah, you know Octavia.”

“Yeah,” says Clarke, although she’s mostly still stuck on  _I fucked Bellamy Blake_ , and then,  _and I don’t even get to remember it yet_. She bites her lip. “So, um.”

“Do you need Advil or water or anything? Or–I can leave so you can get dressed. Or whatever. You don’t have to stay for breakfast. Just ignore her, seriously.”

“I’ve never actually seen you embarrassed before,” she says, feeling a smile starting on her face.

“I’m not embarrassed,” he says. “But you shouldn’t stay if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended, or–”

“I thought I slept with your sister,” she blurts out.

“What?”

“When she came in, I thought I slept with her, and I only met her in the first place because Lincoln’s got a crush on her, so I thought I–”

Bellamy’s face breaks out in a wide grin. “You thought you fucked my sister?”

“She came in and asked if I was staying! She’s hot!”

“So, we have mind-blowing, unbelievable sex, and you don’t even remember?”

“I’m  _going_ to remember!” He’s laughing now, and she tries to glare, but it is kind of funny, and he looks really good with a smile on his face. She doesn’t get to see him in a good mood nearly enough, and the idea that it’s because she’s in his bed makes her heart speed up. “So if you’re just talking up your skills because you think I’m not going to know any better–”

He sobers, and his eyes go dark. “No, I’m definitely not.”

Clarke becomes very aware that she’s still naked in his bed, and the sheet is only just covering her. He’s wearing pajamas and a worn t-shirt, and it would be really easy for him to just be naked again too. “Okay, so–come over here and tell me about it.”

“Tell you about it?”

She wets her lips. “Yeah. I could use a play-by-play of exactly what you did to me last night. Everything. In detail.”

He closes the door as he comes in, and he hears the click of the lock, which seems like a good call, given Octavia has already proved she’s willing to barge in and confuse Clarke about hooking up with Bellamy.

“So, first, you kissed me,” he says, leaning in.

“I kissed you?”

“Yeah, you definitely made the first move. I bought you a drink and I was working up to asking you out, but you just went for it.”

She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in close. He smells clean, like he took a shower after he woke up, and he must have brushed his teeth too. It feels oddly sweet, like he did it for her, and the first press of his lips makes her remember last time, all heat and clashing teeth, spontaneous and heart-stopping.

He kisses her slow this time, careful, like he’s worried she’s going to change her mind, like she didn’t start it. Both times.

She rolls onto her back, tugging him on top of her, and he comes willingly, pressing her onto his bed.

“Okay, so, what next?” she asks, breathless.

His smile is surprisingly sweet. “That’s when I asked you out.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I wanted to make sure I got it in before I took you home. You know, put it on the record.”

“Did I say yes?”

“You said yes as long as we got to have sex first.”

“I’m really smart when I’m drunk.” She kisses him again. “And then you took me home?”

“Yeah.”

She slides her hands under his t-shirt. “Well, keep going. I’m dying to know what happens next.”


	2. Must Love Intersectionality - Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Must Love Intersectionality - Competition
> 
> For [bethanyactually](http://bethanyactually.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4801472)!

“So, explain this to me again?” Bellamy says.

He and Clarke have been dating for three months, and he thinks it’s going pretty well. He’s never been that great at the whole dating thing; he tends to like time to himself, and he’s never been great at romantic gestures or creative dates or anything. He’s mostly kind of a grumpy introvert who likes getting in arguments on the internet and making out, which is only good for a very specific kind of relationship.

Luckily, that is exactly the kind of relationship Clarke wants. They spend a lot of time hanging out in one of their dorm rooms, Clarke’s feet in Bellamy’s lap while she yells at people on Twitter and he works on his thesis. It is honestly kind of perfect, and he has to resist the urge to call Octavia and tell her how great his life is all the time.

“Our trivia rivals just got a new history expert,” Clarke says, scowling. Not at him, just in general. “So we need you to join our team so we can kick their asses.”

“Yeah, so, my first question is how and why you have trivia rivals.”

“You cannot really be surprised,” she says. “You know I do trivia with Wells and Raven, and you’ve met me and Raven. How would we not have trivia rivals?”

“Yeah, okay.” He gives her a calculating look. “This isn’t just you thinking I feel excluded from your life because you don’t take me to your trivia thing, right? Because I honestly don’t care at all.”

She pats him on the shoulder. “Bellamy, I love you, but this is  _trivia_. I wouldn’t ask you to join our team if I didn’t think you were going to be awesome. Harper just got a new girlfriend and she wants to, like, date on Thursday nights, and you’re great at history and almost as competitive as I am, so you can join our team, and Wells can pretend trivia is a double-date as he continues to fail to hit on Raven. Everyone wins.”

“I’m just as competitive as you are,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

She grins. “You’re actually getting competitive about how competitive you are.”

“Shut up.” He pokes her foot on his laugh. “You said you loved me.”

“Yeah, but just to convince you to do trivia with us. So it’s not like it was romantic or anything. Totally manipulative, actually.”

“Thanks, I love you too.”

*

“So, tell me about the rivals,” Bellamy says.

“They’re not rivals,” says Wells. Wells is the non-competitive person in the group, so Bellamy just ignores him. Of course  _he’d_ say they aren’t rivals.

“They’re assholes,” Raven says, because she also knows to ignore Wells. 

“They are assholes,” Wells agrees, so–they really must be. Wells is like the nicest guy Bellamy knows.

“They’re, like–” Raven considers. “Clarke if she wasn’t cool.”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her, and Clarke shrugs. “No, that’s accurate. They’re rich white kids with trust funds who did well in school because of helicopter parents and privilege, and they aren’t used to losing. The first time we beat them, they said the guy running it gave us extra points because of my boobs. Which were obviously looking awesome–”

“Obviously,” says Bellamy, putting his arm around her shoulders.

“Obviously. But, yeah, they’re assholes, and any week we don’t beat them they rub it in our faces. And that’s only been a couple weeks, but obviously even one week is too many. Because they’re dicks.”

“Yeah,” Wells says. “I’m not one to just hate people out of spite–”

“Which is weird and wrong,” Raven interjects.

“But they’re douchebags,” he continues, like she hadn’t said anything.

“So we’re going to kick their asses.”

“You know this sounds like the plot of an eighties movie, right? The scrappy bunch of misfits taking on the rich assholes?”

“And in the eighties movie, the scrappy misfits always win,” says Clarke. “So we’re set. Eighties movies have never lied.”

“Never,” he agrees. He kisses her temple. “I promise I’ll be really good at history.”

“You better be.”

*

“I’m glad you guys aren’t actually the perfect couple,” Raven remarks. “That makes me feel better about the world.”

Bellamy and Clarke are glaring at each other, but he can see the corner of her mouth twitching, just a little bit. He feels his own smile lift in response.

“We knew we weren’t the perfect couple,” Clarke says.

“Yeah, but that was–”

“Terrifying,” Wells supplies. “You spent twenty minutes yelling at each other about what the right answer was, and you were  _both wrong_.”

“I was ninety percent sure,” Bellamy says.

“You were one-hundred percent  _wrong_ ,” Clarke shoots back.

“So were you!”

“Oh my god, please do not start again, I’m not drunk enough for this,” says Raven.

“You’re not drunk at all, you’re underage,” says Clarke.

“ _Exactly_.”

She gives Bellamy a sheepish smile. “So, it’s possible we  _shouldn’t_  do trivia together.”

“Possibly.”

“Yeah, I’m vetoing forever,” Raven says. “Assuming we want to win.”

“Echo’s a history major, she’s cool,” Bellamy says, leaning his head on Clarke’s shoulder. “I’ll see if she wants to do trivia with you guys.”

Clarke presses a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s okay, I still love you.”

He smiles a little. “Yeah, that’s why we’re not doing trivia together anymore. I want you to continue to love me.”

“Not going to be a problem,” she says.

He still gets Echo to join their trivia team. No reason to risk it, honestly. Beating douchebags is always fun, but–well, not as fun as having Clarke.


	3. WELLS/RAVEN under the mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wells x Raven smooching under the mistletoe!!!
> 
> For [blakesdoitbetter](http://blakesdoitbetter.tumblr.com/)!

“I can’t believe you bought mistletoe,” Raven grumbles.

“Why not?” asks Bellamy. “It’s a Christmas party. It’s  _festive_.”

“I’ve never actually seen anyone put mistletoe up in real life,” Raven says. “And even when they do, it never  _works_.”

“It’s a plant, how is it possible for it to not work?” Bellamy asks. “It doesn’t do anything.”

“I meant it’s supposed to let you make out with someone you want to make out with, and I’ve literally never seen it work out how anyone wants.” She snaps her fingers. “Oh my god, you’re totally going to try to get stuck under the mistletoe with Clarke, aren’t you?”

“Every party we have she ends up following me around yelling at me,” Bellamy says. “I might as well take advantage of it, right?”

“Or you could just talk to her and ask her out like a normal person.”

“Nope, that sounds terrible. Besides, don’t even start, when’s the last time you went on a normal-person date?”

“I’m not pathetically pining over my sister’s BFF, though, so–”

“You couldn’t be, you don’t have a sister.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “You’re saying there is absolutely no one who’s coming tomorrow you want to get stuck under the mistletoe with?”

It’s the kind of question that is totally unfair and cheap, because Raven really wasn’t thinking about anything like that. She’s single and she’s fine with that; she gets laid when she wants to get laid, and she’s not doing any stupid, pathetic pining like Bellamy is. But when someone says  _do you want to get stuck under the mistletoe with someone_ , it’s impossible to not think about that. A face will just pop into your head. It’s involuntary.

Bellamy smirks. “Come on, I can help.”

“No you can’t. You can’t handle your own love life, let alone someone else’s. And I don’t have one!” she adds, when he just keeps smirking at her. “Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck you and fuck your mistletoe.”

“That is some shitty Christmas spirit!” Bellamy calls as she heads into the kitchen, and Raven flips him off over her shoulder.

The thing is, Raven knows her personal relationships are–weird. Her best and oldest friend remains Finn, but there’s a part of her that’s glad he doesn’t live anywhere near her anymore, because their breakup was so complicated and shitty and she doesn’t know if she could deal with him being around all the time and still love him, and she doesn’t know who she is, if she doesn’t love Finn. Her closest female friend here is Clarke, who’s the girl Finn was cheating on her with, as well as her roommate’s current crush, and Bellamy is only her roommate because they hooked up when she was feeling bad after the Finn thing, and then met through Clarke, and decided they’d do better as friends than they did as a couple, and then he needed a roommate and she moved in. She has other friends too, normal friends, people from work and school, but the people she’s closest to are just kinda fucked up, honestly.

And then there’s Wells.

Wells is Clarke’s best friend, and he only just moved to town in September. He’s a philosophy professor, and she expected to hate him, because he’s so fucking–nice and genuine and he should be  _boring_ , but she should have known anyone who was Clarke’s best friend would have to be awesome.

He’s also, well–he’s hot, fine. She’d thought he was cute, for the first few months, because she always saw him coming from work, and even though he’s like twenty-nine, he dresses like the most stereotypical professor of all time. And then Clarke moved to a new apartment at the beginning of December, and Wells was helping her move in this tight white t-shirt that was very, very distracting.

So, yeah. If she has to be caught under the mistletoe with anyone, Wells is her pick. But there’s no way she’s telling Bellamy that. Bellamy cannot be trusted. Besides, it’s not like he’s competent. Any attempt he made to matchmake her and Wells with mistletoe would be a disaster. She’s amazed the two of them even managed to put a Christmas party together; their usual holiday celebrations tend to just involve booze and Netflix. But the apartment looks awesome, and there’s still booze, so she feels pretty good about the whole thing.

She feels better when Clarke, Octavia, and Wells show up, all smiles, with additional booze.

“I can’t believe this was Bell’s idea,” says Octavia, looking around. “It looks  _nice_.”

“He’s full of holiday spirit this year. There’s mistletoe fucking  _everywhere_ , so watch out.”

“Mistletoe?” Clarke asks, eyebrows shooting up. “Really?”

“I already told him it was fucked up, but you can feel free to tell him too. Bellamy did all the decoration, I just bought food and made cookies.”

Clarke does a shitty job of looking like she’s not looking for Bellamy; if they don’t hook up soon, Raven is going to lock them in an enclosed space, for everyone’s mental well-being. 

“Bellamy’s in the kitchen, if you guys want to go say hi,” Raven says, ostensibly to all of them, and Octavia lights up.

“Is there mistletoe on the way into the kitchen?”

“I assume so.”

“Awesome, come on, Clarke, I’m totally going to be the first Blake to make out with you.”

Raven and Wells watch them go, and the it’s just the two of them lingering by the front door.

“Come on,” she says, “I’ll show you where you can put your coat.”

“It’s not just wherever I want to throw it?”

“Come on, this is a  _party_ ,” says Raven. “Give us some credit. We cleaned and found out we had a closet.”

“You guys might be the worst adults I know,” he says, but he sounds amused. “Show me this legendary closet.”

It should be really safe, because–who puts mistletoe over a  _closet_? What is Bellamy imagining here? How did  _closet mistletoe_  work out to Wells looking up and saying, “Oh, uh–wow. It really is everywhere, huh?”

“Jesus, Bellamy,” Raven mutters. “Sorry, we can–”

“Hey, I know how mistletoe works,” he says, smiling. “It’s not a big deal, right?”

“It’s been  _five minutes_ ,” she mutters, and Wells moves a little closer.

“Do you mind?” he asks, all– _concerned_ , like he’s really worried Raven hates mistletoe. “I can–”

“It’s fine,” she snaps. “I’m not–”

But Wells steps back, and Raven thinks she can see disappointment flash across his face. “No, it’s stupid. I’m sure Bellamy just wanted to make out with Clarke.”

“Yeah, he did, but–” She huffs, slides her hand behind his neck and tugs him down, pressing her mouth against his. 

There’s a second where he’s stiff and she’s annoyed, and it’s a really shitty kiss. And then his hand twitches against her side, involuntary, and Raven thinks–he wants this. He wants to be kissing her. It makes her stomach flip, and she softens her mouth, slides her other arm around his neck too. 

He makes a soft, surprised noise, and then he anchors his own hands on her waist, firm, and presses closer, sliding his tongue out tentatively, smiling when Raven opens instantly, deepening the kiss. 

The door frame is pressing uncomfortably against her back and his hand is splayed over her back when she hears a very pointed cough, and they finally pull apart. Wells is staring at her, looking shocked, but it settles into a smile when she bites her lip.

“This is cute and all, but–we were gonna hang up our coats,” says Octavia. “If you guys are done.”

“Who puts mistletoe over a closet door?” Raven asks Bellamy.

“Don’t tell me you’re upset about it,” he says. He looks smugger than she has ever seen, which, honestly, she might deserve.

“I’m just saying, you’re a freak.”

“There’s another one over the stairs,” he says. “If you’re looking for somewhere with less foot traffic.”

Raven throws him a glare, but she takes Wells’ hand and drags him toward the stairs anyway. 

A little privacy never killed anyone.


	4. Non-Evil Kidnapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bellarke where one of them kidnaps the other for moral non evil reasons then they FALL IN LOVE 
> 
> For [pawabowa](http://pawabowa.tumblr.com/)!

“You’re late.”

It’s not really what Bellamy was expecting to hear from the girl he’s supposed to be kidnapping. 

“Sorry, what?” he asks, squinting at her. She looks like he’d expect a princess to look, he guesses, but she’s wearing plain clothes, a sensible dress that won’t stand out once they’re out of the palace, soft shoes, good for walking. Not the kind of thing he thought she’d be wearing on her wedding day. Her figured she’d basically look like a cake.

“They were about to come get me,” she says. “I thought I was going to have to run away.”

“Are you critiquing me on my kidnapping technique?” he asks, once his mouth starts working again. It is, to be fair, his first kidnapping, but he’d sort of figured it wasn’t the kind of thing he’d get feedback on from his victim. He’s a criminal; he doesn’t get a lot of suggestions for improvement when he’s on the job.

“I’m not getting married, no matter what,” she says. “David said he was going to figure it out, I thought he’d have a slightly better plan than  _inept criminal_.”

“If I was really inept, I wouldn’t have made it this long as a criminal.” He huffs. “Do you want to keep telling me I’m shitty at this, or do you want to get out of here before I get caught and you get dragged down to your wedding?”

“Point,” she says. “I assume you’re a good enough kidnapper to have an exit strategy?”

“I do.” He checks the fireplace, which is how he got in, and gestures her through in front of him. It’s going to be a lot easier with her conscious. “Does it really count as kidnapping if you knew I was coming and want to come with me?”

“Assisted running away,” says the princess. “What’s your name?”

It’s possible that she’s not trustworthy, that she’s a quick-thinking person who saw someone clearly suspicious breaking into her room and is pretending that she knows what’s happening to lull him into complacency, so she’ll be able to escape when his guard is down.

On the other hand, he knows that Princess Clarke’s marriage wasn’t something that she chose, that it was forced upon her as part of a treaty that her parents were coerced into. It’s part of why he took the job in the first place; kidnapping really isn’t his thing, but no one was happy about the arrangement, and Miller assured him up, down, and sideways that his employer didn’t want the princess hurt.

Maybe that’s the real reason he wants to believe her.

“Bellamy,” he says.

“First or last?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m assuming you know everything about me,” she says, not unreasonably. “A name isn’t really much to ask.”

“First name.”

She nods. “I’m Clarke.”

“What happens when you don’t get married?” he asks. It was his only reservation with the job; the last thing he wants is for Arcadia’s failure to produce a princess for this alliance to reignite the war. 

“I left a note,” she says, which seems–odd. “A ransom note. From Duke Wallace in Mount Weather.”

“Ah.”

Bellamy doesn’t pay a lot of attention to politics, but he knows that Tondisi and Mount Weather have been at war for years, that Arcadia got caught in the middle, and that the whole reason Arcadia and Tondisi were fighting in the first place was that Tondisi sold them out to make a deal with Mount Weather.

“It’s not exactly–it’s not ideal,” says Clarke. “But I’m fucking sick of being a pawn in someone else’s war. If they want to fight each other over me, they can do it without us.”

“And by the time they figure out you’re not in Mount Weather?”

“By the time they figure out I’m not in Mount Weather, I’m hoping I’ll be long gone.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Just wondering where you’re planning to go,” he says, with a shrug. “You’re a princess, you’re not exactly–subtle.”

“Subtle?”

“You might be dressed up like a country girl, but you’ve got royalty written all over you.”

He sees tension in her back, but her voice is light when she says, “Well, maybe I’ll surprise you.”

She does, too. Over the course of their journey to the coast, he finds out that she’s sharp and quick-witted, unused to labor but unwilling to complain, even when she’s exhausted from the journey and he assures her he can handle camp by himself. When they stay together in an inn, she’s the one who takes his arm, gives the innkeeper a big smile, and rattles off a story about how they’re hoping to be married soon and she’s taking him home to introduce him to her parents. And he’s much, much more awkward about having to share a bed than she is.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he offers. 

“And then you’ll be useless traveling tomorrow,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “It’s just a bed. It’s large enough for both of us. Unless you’re worried about your virtue.”

“Terribly,” he says, and tugs off his shirt. 

He doesn’t know that much about how she was as a princess, he never paid much attention, but he has to admit, she’s doing very well as a fugitive.

In fact, by the time they make it to the coast, he’s almost wishing the trip were longer. Just because he’s curious to see how she does. He’d like to have more time to get an idea of how she’ll turn out.

“So, why did you want to come out here, anyway?” he asks finally, looking out at the ocean in front of them. “I assume you were the one who decided where you were going.”

“No, David did. My personal guard. His son lives out here. We were friends when we were children.” She looks at Bellamy, calculating. “I think he’s the one who hired you? Nathan?”

“ _Miller_?” he asks, incredulous. “Your contact here is  _Miller_?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Like you said, he’s the one who gave me the job. He’s a thief, not a–his father is a princess’s personal guard?”

Clarke’s grin flashes, quick and sharp. “Not anymore.” She worries her lip. “Does that mean this is where you live too?”

“Yeah.”

“So I know two people here.”

“The guy who kidnapped you and the guy who paid him to do it,” Bellamy agrees. “Definitely the start of a great social circle.”

“Your sister lives here too, right? She sounded interesting.” He gapes at her, and she raises her eyebrows. “What?”

“I was joking about me being part of your social circle.”

“Why? I wasn’t.”

“Because my dad wasn’t your personal guard. You don’t have any reason to keep on seeing me. I’m a thief and a kidnapper with a shitty pedigree and a shittier past, Clarke, you shouldn’t–”

She leans up and pecks him on the cheek, deliberate. “As kidnappers go, you’re a pretty good one,” she says. “Except for the tardiness issue, but I’m willing to write that off as a one-time thing.”

“You’re a pretty lousy princess,” he says, voice coming out gruff because–well, it’s a little embarrassing, how much his heart is racing.

“Good thing I’m not a princess anymore then, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, feeling a smile grow on his face. “Good thing.”


	5. WELLS/RAVEN Christmas Elves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wells & Raven - "I've actually done my time in those pixie boots" (in reference to an elf costume)
> 
> For [macerelle](http://macerelle.tumblr.com/)!

“I’m going to get a dog  _and_ a little sister,” says Julie. 

Raven has to smile. “Yeah? You’d have to be  _really_  good to get both of those.”

“Well, I heard Mom and Dad talking,” she says, conspiratorial. “And they said I was gonna have a little brother or sister next year.” 

Raven makes a mental note to tell Clarke and Bellamy that they’re not being nearly as subtle about discussing the new kid as they think they are, but just nods at Julie, all seriousness. “Okay.”

“So if I’m getting one anyway, it shouldn’t be hard for it to be a girl,” she continues. “And a dog will look out for us.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Raven says. “Can’t argue with that. But Santa has some trouble with live animals sometimes, so maybe talk to your parents about those.”

“Santa’s  _magic_ ,” Julie says, with the surety of a girl who is almost five. “Santa can do anything.”

“Nah, that’s not how magic works. Magic has to have rules, otherwise it’s just–make believe. Santa can do a lot of things, but he can’t always handle live animals. Think how messy his sleigh would get with all that pet hair and slobber.” Julie giggles, and Raven ruffles her hair. “Definitely leave the pets to your parents. For Santa’s sake.”

“You’re good with her,” someone says, and Raven startles and turns to see Clarke’s friend Wells beaming at the two of them.

“Uncle Wells!” says Julie. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping out,” says Wells, kneeling down so he can talk to Julie. “Are you guys meeting Santa?”

“Yeah! Mom and Dad are shopping, so Aunt Raven brought me.”

Wells grins up at her, and Raven distracts herself from the brightness of his smile by checking out the rest of his outfit. He’s looking–well, he’s an elf. He’s got the little hat with a bell on the end, and the tunic, and  _booties_. It should not work at all, but she always likes people who have a sense of humor about themselves, and even though she has negative desire to have any kids of her own, she likes guys who are good with them.

Honestly, she likes  _Wells_ , but she’s been trying to ignore that for months and sees no reason to stop now.

“I know,” he says, with a somewhat sheepish smile. “It’s hard to take how cool I look right now, but I don’t give autographs.”

Raven snorts. “You look cute, Wells.”

“Just what every guy dreams of hearing,” he mutters.

“Seriously, what are you doing here? You have got to have better things to do than be a Christmas elf.”

“There’s  _nothing_  better,” says Julie. “How did you get to be an elf?”

“One of the elves was sick,” Wells says. “I’m just helping out.” He hoists Julie into his arms. “But I’ll put a good word in for you with the big guy. If you’ve got a non-living Christmas wish.”

“Did you know there’s a Duplo  _train set_?” she asks, and Wells laughs.

“You know, I didn’t, but I’m just a part-time elf. I bet Santa knows.”

“Are you really allowed to abandon your post to hang out with us?” Raven asks. “I did my time in those pixie boots, I know there are rules.” He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs. “I was poor, okay? I got a lot of weird seasonal jobs. Including holiday elf, all through high school.”

“Wow. I would have loved to see that.” Raven raises her eyebrows, and he flushes. “I mean, uh–I can’t really imagine it. Not, like–uh. There’s no way I can get out of this, huh?”

“I literally didn’t even say anything. You brought that entirely on yourself.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” He puts Julie down when they get to the front of the line, and Raven smiles as she scampers toward Santa.

“So, really, did you lose a bet?” Wells is rich, like Clarke; there’s no way he has to do this.

“Would you believe I think it’s fun?”

She smirks. “Nope.”

“Well, I kind of do. And my friend Pete is Santa. Someone called in, he knew I wasn’t doing anything, he basically begged me to help out. And it could be worse.”

“I’m guessing you’re only saying that because none of the kids have kneed you in the balls because Santa didn’t bring them what they wanted last year.”

Wells opens and closes his mouth. “I was going to try to make that into something smooth, like  _it could be worse because I get to see you_ ,” he says. “But now I really want to know if a kid actually tried to knee you in the balls. And if they got that it wasn’t really, uh–that you didn’t have all the relevant parts.”

“Yes and no,” she says. “My male coworkers were all really glad I stepped in front of that bullet.” She gives him an appraising look. “Were you seriously going to try to hit on me dressed up as a Christmas elf?”

“Tis the season, right?”

“The season for what, exactly?”

“Light. Happiness. Goodwill toward men?”

“Fake pointy ears and a cute little hat with a bell on it?”

“That too.” He’s about to say something else, but Julie bounces back over.

“Santa said he really  _couldn’t_ have pets in his sleigh,” she tells Raven. “You were right.”

“Like I said,” she says, scooping Julie up. “I have done my time in those pixie boots. I know what I’m talking about.” She eyes Wells up and down. “When are you done?”

“Six.”

“Want to get a drink? I’ll tell you what I want for Christmas.”

He grins. “Love to.”


	6. Talk Less, Smile More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: professors!bellarke where bellamy is a law professor and clarke is a professor of music. the law building is right next door to the music building but it's undergoing renovations so bellamy's law class has been moved right next door to clarke's class and they are so loud and bellamy is always complaining and such
> 
> For someone who wished to remain anonymous!

There’s  _always_  some kind of construction on campus, so Bellamy doesn’t even worry about it at first. Yes, it sucks getting displaced, but he’s been teaching for three years and hasn’t been screwed over by any of the school’s stupid renovations, so it was probably his turn. And moving classrooms for a semester or two doesn’t seem like that big a deal, honestly. It’s not like he was that attached to his old room.

Then he discovers the new room is not only in the music building, it’s right next to Clarke Griffin’s room.

Bellamy knows Clarke Griffin for all the wrong reasons. He met her at the faculty holiday party last year and tried to hit on her before she introduced him to her girlfriend, which--okay, yes, hitting on people at the faculty holiday party is a terrible idea, but they’d been chatting and she was gorgeous and smart and he was a little tipsy, and it should have been a no harm/no foul situation that he’d recover from the next time he talked to her.

Instead, the next time he talked to her, at a women’s soccer game in the spring, he asked how her girlfriend was doing, and she curtly responded that they’d just broken up and left the conversation. Which, again, not  _really_  his fault, and it honestly felt pretty unfair that she was holding a grudge against him for first not knowing she had a girlfriend and then not knowing she lost the girlfriend, but that was what he had to work with.

Fall semester, they were both put on the committee for the new performing arts center, and half the time they’re in complete, kind of disconcerting agreement, like those creepy twins in movies who speak in unison and don’t blink, and the other half they argue so violently that the rest of committee just leaves and the two of them don’t even notice for like half an hour.

So, of course, he’s next to her room, and she’s teaching all these--well, he doesn’t know what, exactly, but her classes are fucking  _loud_. And somehow all at the same time as his classes.

“What the fuck are you even teaching?” he asks, once all their Friday afternoon students have cleared out.

“Hi, Bellamy, nice to see you too, glad to have you in the building. Did you have a good break? I did.”

He blinks a few times, but he guesses it is actually the first time he’s talked to her since last semester and he could have come up with a better greeting. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “It was nice. My sister and her husband came with their kid, it was great.”

“Oh, awesome. How old?”

“Three.” He pulls his phone out and the she coos appropriately at twenty billion pictures of his niece, and by the time that’s done, he's forgotten he was supposed to be yelling at her.

It’s not  _every_  class, which just makes it more annoying. They’ll be quiet for a while and then suddenly he’ll hear some horrific, peppy pop song or amateur jazz or whatever it is Clarke does, and all his con-law students either get annoyed or distracted or both.

The next time he goes to talk to her, he’s prepared. “Hey, Clarke, how’s it going?”

She gives him a bright smile, which is cheating, because it’s impossible for him to prepare himself for that. “Hey, fine! How are you liking the music building? It’s a pain, right?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh--I wanted to talk to you about that? Your classes get kind of--loud.”

“I’m a music teacher, Bellamy.”

“Yeah, but--you were playing Spice Girls loudly enough we couldn’t discuss the Federalist Papers today.” He pauses, but he can’t help it. “What class needs to listen to  _the Spice Girls_?”

“Gender and Sexuality in Music,” she says, promptly. “It’s a really cool class, if I do say so myself.”

“That does sound really cool,” he admits, grudging. “But--is there any way you can keep it down? It’s distracting. I started singing along.”

It is absolutely the worst possible thing he could have said, because her eyes light up. “Bellamy Blake. Do you like  _the Spice Girls_?”

“No! But I have a little sister, so--shut up. Seriously, can you just--try to keep the volume low enough that we won’t hear in my classroom?”

She considers, and then nods. “Yeah, of course. Sorry about that.”

The next week, her jazz ensemble plays a variation the Imperial March at a high enough volume that conversation is impossible without yelling, and he gives up on being polite.

“That’s your idea of quiet?” he demands. “Jesus Christ, I would have been able to hear that in my  _old_  room in the law building!”

“Did you know that you can  _really_  yell about Alexander Hamilton?” she asks, eyes flashing dangerously. “We were trying to listen to some Mozart at an appropriate level and your class arguing drowned it out!”

Bellamy opens and shuts his mouth, and then settles on, “Well, it was really important.”

“So was--”

“Star Wars music?”

“We were improvising with it.”

“Fine,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Fine.”

After that, it’s war. Bellamy’s classes always tend toward passionate debate--he’s teaching them after all--and he makes no effort to tone it down. Clarke retaliates with all her music at top volume, which is annoying both because it just makes Bellamy’s classes louder and because he actually  _likes_  all her music, so the whole thing is actually kind of fun, which--there’s something wrong with him, right? There definitely is.

After only three weeks of that shitshow, they get the university-professor equivalent of called into the principal’s office, which mostly means that the chair of the music department asks them to come meet with her.

“We’re in trouble,” Bellamy says, voice low.

“She’s gonna call our parents,” Clarke agrees. It’s weirdly companionable. He doesn’t know what to do with their friendship, honestly. If he can even call it a friendship.

“Joke’s on her, my parents are dead.”

“Nice,” she says, and they high-five.

There’s something wrong with both of them.

“Professor Blake,” says Professor Cartwig. He doesn’t really know her, particularly, but they’re sort of passingly familiar with each other. She does not look happy to see him. “Clarke. Come in. Thanks for meeting with me. I assume you know what this is about?”

The two of them exchange a look, and Clarke takes the lead. “Noise complaints?”

“I stopped by yesterday,” she says. “The  _floor below yours_. It was ridiculous. Are you aware your law students are arguing to the beat of Clarke’s music?”

“Yeah, I kind of noticed,” Bellamy admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “The music is too loud so we have to--”

“If you weren’t so loud to begin with, I wouldn’t have to crank up the volume!” Clarke protests.

He finds himself smiling, and she grins back. “We’ll, uh--” Bellamy starts. “We’ll try to dial it back.”

“Please do. I don’t want to hear any more complaints about this.”

“You won’t,” Clarke assures her, and takes Bellamy’s elbow to drag him out of the office. 

“What?” he asks.

“I think we should get a drink.”

It seems like an odd suggestion, but, well. If she’s offering, he’s not going to say no. “It’s 4:30,” he says instead. 

“And?”

“Just saying. Lead the way.”

After they’re both halfway into beers, she says, “I might have been wrong about you.”

“What about me?”

She works her jaw for a minute and then says, “I thought you were kind of a homophobic douchebag.”

“Wait, really?”

“You got all weird when I said I had a girlfriend!”

“Well, yeah, I was hitting on you, like a dick. I try not to hit on gay girls at all, let alone gay girls in relationships.”

“I’m bi.”

“Yeah, I figured that out later. But at the time I was like--Jesus, she must think I’m such an asshole.”

Clarke laughs. “And I wasn’t thinking that at all, until you got weird.”

“Awesome.”

“So then when you asked about my ex I was like, ugh, he’s so judgey, but you were just making conversation?”

“Yeah. It was kind of surreal, honestly, I felt like I was putting my foot in my mouth, but it’s not like asking someone about their girlfriend is actually offensive. How was I supposed to know you broke up?”

She laughs again. “So, yeah, like I said, I was wrong about you. I feel like I owe you an apology.”

“Me too,” he says. “I could have, uh. Been slightly more mature about the noise issue.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She taps her finger against the rim of her glass. “You were hitting on me at that holiday party?”

“Fuck, was I so bad at it you couldn’t even tell?”

“I kind of have tunnel vision when I’m in relationships,” she says with a shrug. “I know I’m taken, so I’m never paying any attention for flirting.” She worries her lip. “And then you stopped because I was--”

“Possibly gay, definitely taken, seemed to hate me,” Bellamy says, counting off on his fingers.

“Bisexual, single, weirdly fond of you,” she says. “In case that changes your feelings on hitting on me.”

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times and then settles on, “So, can I buy your next drink?”

Clarke beams at him. “If you insist.”

Apparently channeling unresolved sexual tension into music and/or constitutional law debates is a thing, because basically as soon as they start dating, the classroom issues naturally resolve themselves. Also Bellamy’s entire life gets better, but that’s kind of a separate issue. It’s not like his being single was disrupting anyone’s classes or anything. That’s just a big deal for him.

Two days before spring break, Clarke props her chin on his head while he’s finishing his grading and says, “My class is gonna sing for you tomorrow, by the way.”

“Are we going to get a noise complaint?”

“I figured we could actually come into your room and do it directly. Just to spare our vocal cords.”

He tilts his head back so he can look up at her and raise his eyebrows. “Are you actually using your class to serenade me? That’s so romantic, Professor Griffin.”

“I’m the best girlfriend ever,” she agrees, bright. “So, tomorrow? Your 11 a.m. con-law. Get pumped.”

As soon as his students figure out her class singing “Non-Stop” from Hamilton, they join in, and the combined forces of thirty students and two professors yelling “HAMILTON WROTE THE OTHER FIFTY-ONE” at top volume does land them three more noise complaints, but it’s totally worth it.

Best girlfriend ever.


	7. Frog Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bellarke witches/wizards/general supernatural creatures in the modern age.
> 
> For [schmahlo](http://schmahlo.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one of my prompts for today is actually going in this post, for logistical reasons. If you're looking for the other two, there's a George/Alanna (Tortall) fill [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5345906) and a Just As You Are timestamp [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5345921)!

Clarke assumes most people have a friend they go to in crisis situations; she has Bellamy Blake.

Which is, okay, not entirely fair. Bellamy is mostly a friend, by this point. They met in college in a non-human history course and ended up getting into a loud argument about werewolves during literally the second class, which she finally won by yelling “Some of us  _are_  werewolves, dickface!” 

Well, if you can really be counted as winning an argument that ends with you getting kicked out of class. Still, he left her alone on werewolf issues after that, and on the next full moon, he showed up at her dorm with the best wolfsbane potion she’d ever smelled.

“I was being a dick,” he said. “I should have gotten kicked out with you.”

“Where’d you get this?” she asked.

“I’m a cleric. I made it.” He paused and added, “I also already knew you were a werewolf, so I was being even more of a dick, arguing with you.”

“How’d you know?”

“Again, cleric. I can sense that stuff.”

She nodded and looked down at the potion. “Well, uh, thanks.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s an easy brew. Let me know if you want one next month.”

They’d still fought like cats and dogs in class, but he’d given her the potion every full moon, and by the end of the semester, it was the companionable kind of fighting.

Honestly, at this point, the only reason they don’t say they’re friends is because they’re both stubborn assholes, and it’s more fun to pretend they don’t like each other.

But there’s no one she’d rather go to in a crisis, especially a magical crisis, so when she gets turned into a frog, he’s her guy.

She’s luckily right by the stop for a bus to his place, and a bunch of real people are waiting, so she manages to jump on with the crowd without getting crushed and hang out at the front, relatively sheltered from prying eyes.

The driver spots her at some point, but he just rolls his eyes; she can’t possibly be the first transformed creature to hitch a ride with him. Accidents happen.

Bellamy owns a small shop that sells potion ingredients and magical remedies, which means that even if he wasn’t her default person to go to with issues, he’d definitely be the right one for this job. The door is, of course, closed and non-automatic, so she has to jump up and down in front of it hoping he’ll notice her, but a passer-by does first, and she pushes open the door and tells him, “You’ve got a customer.”

He glances up from his computer, confused, but then he spots Clarke on the floor and smirks.

“What the hell, Griffin?” he asks. “I told you, don’t date the witch. I told you once, I told you a thousand times.”

She lets out a morose ribbit, and he comes over to pick her up and put her down next to the register. 

“Seriously, what did you do? Never mind, can’t talk. Was it Lexa? One croak for yes, two for no.”

She croaks once, and he nods, running his finger along the spines of the books behind the counter.

“This is the biggest  _I told you so_  of all time,” he says. “I am never going to stop saying I told you so.” She croaks once again, because she knows it’s true, and he puts a book down next to her on the counter and opens it up. “Obviously I’m going to see if I can fix you, but you know clerics and witches use different kinds of magic. I do potions, she does spells. If a cleric fucked you up, I could fix it in no time. But no, you had to piss off a witch.”

His voice trails off as he gets distracted by the book, and Clarke just watches his eyes skim down the page, finger following words as he tries to find what he’s looking for.

Even in bad circumstances, she loves watching him work.

“I wonder if a werewolf has ever gotten turned into a frog before. What happens on the full moon?” he says, mostly to himself. “Wolf then back to frog, or does the transformation fix the spell?”

It’s not question Clarke really wants to find out the answer to, even if it’s kind of academically interesting, so she just lets out three short croaks, which she hopes get across the message,  _focus, Bellamy._

“Be nice or I’ll leave you a frog,” he says, absent, but they both know it’s a hollow threat.

Or, it would be, but Bellamy is actually incapable of fixing the damn problem. He has potions to cancel spells and return people to their original forms, but he’s a cleric, not a witch, and he can’t break a witch’s magic without knowing more about the specifics.

His little sister turns up when he’s poking Clarke with a stick (in a helpful way), takes one look at the situation, and asks, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Her witch ex-girlfriend turned her into a frog,” Bellamy says.

“I meant  _you_. What are you doing?”

“Experimenting with cures.”

“Did you kiss her?”

“Why would I kiss her?”

“Let’s see, where do I start? One, it’s a witch curse, those always have practical, simple cures. Like, you do something, you get cured. Two, it’s an ex-girlfriend curse, so it’s totally going to be some dumb romance thing. Three, she’s a  _frog,_ kisses are traditional. Therefore, witch plus dumb romance plus frog equals kissing.”

There’s a pause while Bellamy and Clarke both digest this, and then he sighs. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see if I can find some people to kiss you. Just let me get my coat.”

Clarke croaks once, and Octavia huffs. “That’s not what I said!” she yells, but Bellamy pays her no attention.

Clarke doesn’t either. Curses like this are true love. And it’s just a stupid crush. She’ll get over it.

So he’s right; there’s really no point in his trying to kiss her.

*

She has to give Bellamy credit: he’s so charming he can actually get people to kiss a frog.

“It went wrong with her ex-girlfriend,” he’s telling the hot blonde he found. “Not her fault. The ex was an asshole. I’ve had some bad breakups, but turning someone into a frog? Come on.”

“That is pretty extreme,” the blonde agrees. “One kiss?”

“One kiss. And if it works, you get an awesome girl for your true love.”

“If it doesn’t, do I get you as a consolation prize?”

Clarke makes a weird noise that’s apparently how frogs laugh, and Bellamy gives the blonde a wry smile. “I’ve got my hands full right now, but I’d love to get your number.”

The blonde leans down to kiss Clarke, and it’s really a shame that she’s a fucking frog, because she’s getting so many kisses and it’s basically impossible to enjoy them in her current state. 

She ribbits, in an attempt to thank the blonde, but the girl doesn’t look that disappointed. She just gives Bellamy her number and pecks him on the cheek; Bellamy has the good sense to wait until she’s gone to crumple the number and sink it into the garbage can behind the bar.

It’s been his standard treatment for all the numbers he’s gotten tonight. It didn’t surprise her when it was guys’ numbers, Bellamy being fairly straight, but there have been some really pretty girls wanting to make time with him, and every number’s been discretely discarded.

If she was a human, she could ask him about it; as it is, she can just croak at him.

“Your true love might not be the bar type,” he muses, taking a drag of beer. “What do you think?”

She croaks again.

“Right, you’re fucking useless. Come on, I think it’s time to call it a night.”

He sent Octavia to buy a terrarium for her while they were out and it’s got water and dirt and bugs, which–none of these are things she generally wants, but she is a frog, and frogs want all these things.

“I told O to put it in the store, not my room,” he grumbles, mostly to himself, but he deposits Clarke in the little habitat anyway and gives her a smile. “I’ll figure this out, okay? I promise.”

She croaks once and hopes he remembers that means yes.

*

Every one of her friends except Bellamy kisses her over the next few days, just to check, and she’s secretly relieved every time it doesn’t work. Because, yeah, after four days of living day-in and day-out with Bellamy as he tirelessly works to get her fixed, she’s starting to think her stupid little crush might not be so stupid or so little, and she’s really hoping he’s going to kiss her, because if he does, she’s  _sure_ it will work. He’s hers. He’s got to be hers. 

Unfortunately, he hasn’t gotten the message yet.

“Maybe I should talk to Lexa,” he says. “I know she hates me, but–I don’t know. Maybe she did it to prove she’s your true love, and if you just let her kiss you, it’ll be better.”

“Or you could kiss her!” Octavia yells. That Octavia has been advocating for this so much is, to Clarke, a pretty good indication that Bellamy might reciprocate her feelings.

Clarke croaks at him and sort of jumps at his face, and he rolls his eyes.

“Come on, you know there’s no way I’m your true love,” he says, with a smile that kind of breaks her heart. “What’s the point?”

She jumps at him again, and he sighs, picks her up, and presses his mouth against hers, quick, perfunctory, like it’s a foregone conclusion that it won’t work.

“See–” he starts, but Clarke feels the tug of transformation. It’s not like coming back from the wolf–less painful, and faster–and part of her wants to really concentrate on the differences, but she’s naked on Bellamy’s store counter, so she’s got other things to do.

“You fucking dumbass!” she says, but her grin is huge.

His eyes dart down to her breasts before he snaps them back up, and he wets his lips. “You–” he starts, but his mouth doesn’t seem able to form words. He’s just staring at her in stunned silence.

“Is that Clarke?” Octavia asks. “Did you kiss her?”

“You need to come watch the counter!” Bellamy yells. He’s unbuttoning his shirt, fumbling it off to drape over her shoulders, and Clarke can’t stop smiling. He’s her true love. 

“Wow,” says Octavia, and Clarke smiles and shrugs.

“Hi, Octavia.”

“I’ve, uh–” Bellamy starts. “I’ve got something you can wear, come on.”

Octavia looks like she’s going to say something, but Clarke shakes her head and follows him silently back up to his room. Her terrarium is there, and she feels a surge of unreal fondness for all he did for her.

“You want sweats or–”

“Bellamy,” she says, winding her arms around his neck. He swallows hard. “You saved me.”

“Sorry I didn’t try it sooner,” he says, letting his hands catch her sides slowly, like he still doesn’t believe it. “I didn’t need proof that I didn’t have a chance with you.”

She leans up to press her mouth to his again, and it’s really so much better when she has lips of her own, even if he’s unresponsive for a few seconds out of sheer shock. Then he pulls her in, kisses her back hungry and desperate, and Clarke almost laughs in relief.

“If you just did this when Octavia told you to, we could have been doing this for four days,” she teases, sliding her hands up his chest.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, and pushes her onto the bed so he can do just that.


	8. Phooey to Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I think I read you're a Tom Stoppard fan. You must have read Arcadia! Bellarke as Septimus and Thomasina. Not a full immersion into Arcadia, just some component of their relationship. Either the meeting-of-the-minds, or the teasing and evolving relationship, or the bittersweet and sad ending. And in case you didn't read Arcadia, mhm... think 2 scholar/geniuses bonding over their mutual devotion to curiosity and delight in scientific discovery!
> 
> For [voluntarydemise](http://voluntarydemise.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have read Arcadia a lot. Everyone should read Arcadia a lot.

Clarke is getting tired of tutors.

It’s not that she doesn’t like learning; in fact, the problem might be that she likes learning too much. Her tutors are clearly intelligent men, but they’re awful teachers. Half of Clarke’s questions they can’t answer and pretend they can, and the half that they can answer, they make her feel stupid for asking. As far as Clarke is concerned, not knowing something she’s never been taught isn’t stupid; if her tutors don’t teach her these things, how else is she supposed to learn them?

Then, when she’s fifteen, her father hires Bellamy Blake.

“If this one doesn’t stick, I might be out of options,” he says, but his voice is fond and warm. Some of her tutors have said she has too much curiosity for a girl, but her parents have never listened to that. They want her educated.

Bellamy is unlike any of her previous tutors. He’s quite young, can’t be far out of university, if he’s out at all. His skin is darker than she’s seen, except from men who work in the sun, and his hair is a tangle of inky black curls that she finds very distracting. She loves to sketch, and something about his hair and the smattering of freckles across his face makes her itch for a pen.

He’s gruff and short with his instructions; he gives her a set of sums to work right away, to find out where she is with her mathematics, and when she finishes them in fifteen minutes–they were  _far_  too easy–he just glances over her paper and says, “Great. These next.”

That’s how it goes the first week. He gives her work, non-stop, except when he returns her corrected sums. She finds out she’s been doing some operations wrong, but still getting the right answer.

It’s not the first time she’s heard it, and, as always, she scowls at him and says, “If I get the right answer, why does it matter how I get to it?”

Her previous tutors have considered the question impertinent or stupid or beneath them; Bellamy just regards her over the table, eyes steady. “Do you want to get better at this? I mean, learn mathematics at a higher level.”

“Yes.”

“Then you should learn to do it my way. Everything you’ll learn later builds on how you do it now. I don’t know how to teach to the way you do it. I could try to, but you’re going to get more out of it if I can teach what I know. And for that, you need to do it this way.”

Clarke blinks. “It builds?”

“Everything builds,” he says. “You learn addition before you learn multiplication because then we can explain three times three as adding three together three times. It’s like that, but much bigger.”

His posture is casual, his voice easy and unconcerned. If he’s offended by her question or thinks it stupid, he shows no sign.

“All right,” says Clarke, still a little wary. “Show me your way.”

Bellamy is sarcastic and short, preferring to respond to Clarke’s personal questions with a grunt or an absent, “Finish that translation,” instead of a real answer, but Clarke likes him. He’s smart and honest with her; when she asks questions he can’t answer, he mulls them over, finally says, “No idea. I’ll bring some books tomorrow, we can try to find out.” He treats her as intelligent and capable, assumes she can do things on her own unless she indicates she needs help.

Her father smiles and says, “So, you’ll keep this one?”

Clarke shrugs, trying to be casual, but a smile tugs at her lips. “For now.”

*

Her mother throws a party six months after he begins work, and Clarke is giddy with excitement for it.

“You like parties?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“Not particularly, but you  _have_  to talk to me about yourself at a party. It would be impolite if you didn’t.”

He looks somewhat alarmed. “I’m going?”

“Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you?”

“I’m your tutor, not–someone who goes to parties.”

Clarke cocks her head at him, work momentarily forgotten. “You’re not a gentleman, are you?” she asks.

“Of course I’m not.”

“My previous tutors were.”

He flashes her a grin. “Maybe that’s why you couldn’t keep them, my lady.”

“Clarke,” she says, but it’s an old argument. “Are you worried you won’t fit in?”

He glances at his hands. “If you really want to ask me about myself, you don’t have to wait for a party. Just do your problems. I’ll answer one question for each you get right.”

“Really?”

“I promise.”

She leans down and finishes the first problem in seconds, sliding it across the the table for his approval. He laughs softly and nods, and she says, “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

It’s even younger than she expected, and she’d known he was young. “Twenty?”

“If you want to ask again, you need to do another problem,” he says, with a smirk, and she does the problem and shows him. “Good,” he says, coming to sit next to her so he can check her work more easily. She can feel the warmth of his arm against her side, just barely, and wants to lean into it.

“Have you been to university?”

“No.” He pauses and adds, “Your father is paying me ridiculously well. I’m hoping I’ll be able to go once you’re done with your education.”

She nods, finishes the third problem. “What about your family?”

“My mother passed last year.” He looks down at his hands again, like he’s making up his mind. “My father was a sailor. I never met him, or even knew his name. My grandmother made sure my mother was married as soon as she found out, but–” Clarke moves a little closer to him, offering quiet support, and he smiles at her, soft. “If he had been the only one who realized I wasn’t his son, I think he might have been able to accept it. The wedding was quick and he knew it. But anyone who saw me could tell I was too dark to be his son, and he couldn’t stand that.” He clears his throat. “I assume he was the one who fathered my sister, but I’ve never been sure. He wasn’t around much before that, and died not too long after. I wouldn’t say any of us mourned the loss.”

“I don’t see why you would,” she says, and he flashes her a grin. She finishes another problem and says, “Tell me about your sister.”

“Her name’s Octavia,” he says, with a fond smile. “She’s a year younger than you are. She’s a handful and then some. My grandmother is taking care of her right now, she writes me daily to tell me that O is a scandal waiting to happen.”

“You miss her,” Clarke says, feeling a little wistful. She loves having Bellamy around, more than she probably should; it hurts, feeling like he’d rather be elsewhere.

“Of course I miss her, she’s my sister,” he says, easy. “But I’m getting her a dowry, so even if she’s a scandal waiting to happen, someone will be greedy enough to marry her.” He grins. “I assume that’s your plan too.”

“No, my plan is for the marriage to be the scandal,” she says, unthinking. Before he can ask her what that’s supposed to mean, she continues, “Are you the oldest?”

He looks bemused. “Yes.”

“Then why is your sister an  _Octavia_?”

“Because I was the one who named her.”

“And you weren’t very good at Latin when you were–how old, six?”

He’s laughing, and Clarke feels a little better. He does like her, he must. Even if he’d rather be at home, he doesn’t hate being with her. “Almost seven. I named her after Emperor Augustus’s younger sister. And that was an extra four questions, so do four more problems.”

Frowning, Clarke reviews the conversation. “Only three. If you were the oldest, why your sister’s Octavia, and if you weren’t good at Latin.”

“Missing her was–”

“Not a question. It was obvious.”

“Fine,” he says, amused. “Do three more, if you want to ask anything else. No more tricks, either.”

“Technically,  _tell me about your sister_  isn’t a question either,” Clarke sing-songs. “But I’ll do three more questions. As a show of good faith.”

He laughs, shaking his head, and settles back to reading her composition. “Good faith,” he agrees, and he stays seated next to her as he works.

Clarke lets herself enjoy it.

*

The next night, she goes to his room once the rest of the household is abed. She knew where he slept before, of course, but she’s never visited. She doesn’t realize it’s improper until he opens the door in his shirtsleeves, his hair even more rumpled than usual, his glasses crooked.

“Clarke?” he asks, and it sends a thrill to her that he calls her by her name when he’s taken by surprise. “What is it? Did something happen? Are you all right?”

She pulls her attention from his arms, which are much larger than she would have expected, for a tutor. “I was being unfair yesterday,” she says. “About the dance. My mother will expect you to be there, and I thought I should offer my assistance.”

“Your assistance,” he repeats. She can see his mind working, and then he takes her wrist and tugs her into his room, shutting the door. Once that’s done, he looks distressed, like he made the wrong decision after all. “I’m going to send you back to bed as soon as I’ve talked you out of this,” he tells her. “But I’d rather not get killed while I’m doing it.”

“You’re not going to get killed.”

“You can’t be here.”

“Just for a minute,” she says. “You can tell me all the things you’re worried about at the party, and I’ll tell you what to do about them until you stop worrying.”

He looks her over, and she sets her jaw, defiant. “If anyone finds you, I  _will_  get killed,” he says, and she keeps her smile in with an effort.

“Then no one will find me,” she says.

He sprawls back in his chair. “What even  _happens_  at one of your mother’s parties?” he asks, and this time she does grin, and he smiles back.

*

After that, she goes to his room once every few days, because he has books of his own she hasn’t read before, and she likes being with him. He protests for the first few visits, but after that he resigns himself to it, lets her in without comment and just goes back to his desk. They just work together, the same as they do during her lessons, but she likes it better this way. She works on mathematics even he doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just does his best to answer her questions and check the work he can check. He gets new books, just for her, and they figure them out together.

By the time her parents decide she’s educated enough and needs to be married before she gets any more educated, she’s completely in love with him.

“Did you make enough for university?” she asks. It’s his last night, and there was a party. He seemed to enjoy it. He danced with a lot of pretty girls. His sister even came, although she couldn’t stay long.

She doesn’t know if she was the prettiest girl he danced with, but he danced with her more than anyone else, aside from his sister, and she’s the one in his bedroom now.

But it won’t be his bedroom tomorrow.

“I did,” he says. “I’ll go and get enough credentials to be a real teacher.”

“Good. You’ll be good at it, if you’re nicer to your students than you were to me.”

He doesn’t quite laugh, but he smiles a little. His eyes are steady on her. “Are you–” He starts, and clears his throat. “You said you were going to cause a scandal when you married,” he says. “Are you still planning to?”

“Yes,” she says, feeling her own smile breaking out.

He nods, somber, but his eyes are warm. “Do you need help with that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I could try and come up with some names,” he says, grinning outright, and Clarke grins back.

“He’ll need to be good at mathematics,” she says. “But he can’t mind that I’m better. Good at Latin, since I’m not. Arrogant and a little grumpy and–”

He kisses her, and she pulls him in, fingers tangling in his hair, kissing back as best she can.

“You’re bad at this,” he says, warm, kissing her again.

“So teach me,” she says, and he does.


	9. Netflix and No Chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke - "i didnt realize 'netflix and chill' meant something else now"
> 
> For [lushatrocity](http://lushatrocity.tumblr.com/)!

It really is an accident.

Bellamy has a reputation for not really getting social media, which he can’t even pretend he doesn’t deserve. He has Facebook account because Octavia made him get it when she went to college, and Snapchat for the same reason. He doesn’t have an Instagram of his own, but he occasionally checks Octavia and Clarke’s accounts to see what they’re up to. He barely even understands  _how_  to navigate Twitter. Hashtags freak him out.

Clarke regularly tells him he’s basically a senior citizen, and he tells her she’s basically an embryo. All their friends are convinced they’re going to get married, but he’s not going to get cocky about it.

So, yeah. Bellamy is really technology- and social-media-impaired, and the whole thing is a complete and total mistake.

Clarke comes over for their usual Sunday hangout with Chinese, and they eat it on the couch, watching  _Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt_  on Netflix. It’s nothing even a little out of the ordinary for them; Clarke’s one of his best friends and they always spend Sunday nights together.

So when Octavia snapchats him a picture of her criminal law textbooks with the caption  _homework and sadness_ , he gets the reference enough to take a cute selfie of himself and Clarke on the couch and label it  _Neflix and chill_. He knows that’s a thing, and it’s an accurate description of what’s happening.

He sends the message and settles back in next to Clarke. She tucked herself into his side for the picture and seems to have no interest in moving; he should take selfies more often.

“Your sister?” she asks.

“Yeah. She’s still hating law school half the time, she needs to complain a lot.”

“What’s the other half?”

“Bragging about how she’s going to make fifty times more in one year than I’ll ever make in my life.”

“Definitely true.”

“But I’m doing good. Maybe.”

“You’re basically a superhero,” she says, fond. “We need good teachers.”

“That’s what I tell myself.”

He feels a buzz between them, and Clarke pulls her phone out of her pocket without really pulling away from him. She frowns and pokes at it.

“Everything okay?” he asks, pausing the show.

“Yeah, your sister tagged me in something on Facebook,” she says.

“You’re Facebook friends with my sister?”

“Of course I am, she’s your sister,” says Clarke, easy. “Just because I haven’t met her yet doesn’t mean I don’t know her.”

The warm bloom of happiness that swells in his chest lasts exactly as long as it takes for him to see the post that loads on Clarke’s phone.

It’s the snapchat picture with both him and Clarke tagged, and she’s written,  _HOLY SHIT BELL FINALLY GOT A GIRLFRIEND he’s been failing to ask her out for like three years_. A couple of their mutual friends have already liked it, because–well, again, all of them are convinced the two of them are going to get married. Apparently this is an exciting development.

“What the fuck,” he says.

Clarke is snickering, which is probably better than some of the other responses she could have to this. “Is that really what you sent her?”

“Yeah. Why? That’s what we’re doing, right? That’s a thing. I’ve heard people say it.” That just makes her laugh harder, and it’s a real struggle to keep his own smile in check. “Seriously, what?”

Clarke likes Octavia’s post and then switches over to some app called Urban Dictionary. “You should really look stuff up before you say it,” she tells him.

“You should think about the fact that you have and use and app called Urban Dictionary,” he says. “Isn’t that kind of racist?”

“I use the best resources available to me,” she says, and shows him the phone. “Seriously, words mean things, Bellamy.”

“I know what all those words mean,” he grumbles, but then the definition loads. He blinks at the phone. “It means we’re having sex?”

“Or are going to, yeah,” Clarke says. “This one isn’t actually on your sister. You definitely sent her a picture of you and a hot girl cuddling and basically labeled it  _going to get some later_.”

“Fuck,” he groans, laughing a little and rubbing his face. “God, I’m sorry. I really had no idea.”

“I know you didn’t,” she says, patting his side. She’s still leaning on him, her head against her shoulder. “We all know you don’t know anything about young people.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s fine, Bellamy. Really.”

He steals her phone and goes back to Facebook. “Your friends are really excited.”

“They probably know it’s bullshit and just think it’s funny.”

“Not if they think you sent the picture,” he says. “You know what words mean.”

There’s a pause long enough that he starts feeling a little sick, and then, deliberately, she slides her hand up his side, rucking up his t-shirt, fingertips dancing over his skin. “I do know what words mean,” she agrees. “And if you’d asked me if I wanted to come over and watch Netflix and chill, I would have said yes.” He can barely breathe, and she smiles. “I would have asked what took you so long, actually.”

“You could have asked me,” he says, putting his own arm around behind her back, squeezing her hip. “Why did I have to do all the work?”

“Well, if I’d asked  _you_  to Netflix and chill, you wouldn’t have known what I meant. So it seemed kind of pointless.” She bites her lip, looks down. “Also we met because you were hitting on a girl who looked nothing like me, so–”

She sounds genuinely unsure, so Bellamy tilts her chin up to kiss her before responding. But then he’s kissing her, and she’s kissing him back, no hesitation at all, and it’s hard to remember he was going to say something when she’s pressing back into him, mouth insistent and demanding, everything he’s been wanting for years.

“You were hitting on the same girl and she looked even less like me,” he tells her, when he finally remembers what he was planning to say, and she laughs against his neck.

“I guess you’re not wrong.” Her hand traces delicate patterns on his side. “I was nervous.”

“Me too.” He presses a kiss to her temple. “My sister makes fun of me about you a lot.” He pauses. “Also all our mutual friends. Basically everyone I know. Shit, I’m an idiot.”

“Nah, you’re fine, emotions suck,” says Clarke, amused. “Netflix is way better.”

“Uh, yeah, don’t get me wrong, Netflix is great, but if we could be making out right now, fuck Netflix.”

Clarke laughs and slides into his lap, so much contact it’s as overwhelming as it is perfect. “It’s supposed to be on in the background for Netflix and chill,” she says, leaning down to kiss him.

“You kids and your slang,” he teases, tangling his hand in her hair. “Can’t I just tell you I’m in love with you and I want use to date?”

Her grin is blinding. “If you want to be boring about it, sure.” Her nose bumps against his. “We can skip the Netflix. I love you too.”


	10. the sound that you found for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke, whatever The Weakerthans' "[Virtute the Cat Explains Her Departure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnmcw6kJ2HQ)" might inspire you to write (bonus points if Clarke is actually a cat)
> 
> For [reblogginhood](http://reblogginhood.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-AU, spoilers for the end of season two.

Bellamy doesn’t even want the stupid cat.

It’s smaller than he thinks it should be, thin and gangly, tawny gold with clear blue eyes, and it falls into step with him in the woods when he’s hunting, as natural as anything, like it thinks it belongs with him.

It’s like walking with a ghost, in some strange way; that’s part of why he doesn’t want it. But the thing follows him back to camp, padding behind him so quietly he keeps thinking it must have left, but every time he glances back, there it is, his new shadow.

He’d try to get rid of it, honestly, if not for how excited O gets. He understands why his sister is growing harder and harder on Earth–part of him is even glad for it–but he misses the girl he used to know, the one whose eyes lit up in wonder when she saw something new. 

She frets over the cat as soon as she meets it, giving it pieces of salted meat and brushing the knots out of its fur. The cat purrs up a storm while it kneads its claws in Bellamy’s pants, and when he tries to tell his sister the cat’s an asshole, she just hushes him.

So that’s how Bellamy gets a cat.

*

“It’s a female,” Abby tells him. It’s the first time he’s talked to her in almost two months, and it’s still sooner than he’d like. He’s pretty sure they both blame the other for Clarke leaving, but he knows it’s more her fault than his. He’s heard the way she talks about the choices her daughter has made, like she hasn’t done worse. Like they’d be better off if Abby had made all their decisions.

But it doesn’t really matter. Clarke’s gone, and he couldn’t get her to stay either.

“Where did you get her?” Abby continues.

“She followed me back from hunting,” he says, with a shrug. “Anything I need to do for cats?”

“I’m a doctor, not a vet.”

“Well, we don’t have any vets, so if you have any suggestions, I’m all ears.”

Abby’s mouth flattens. “I’m not your enemy, Bellamy.”

“And?”

“I don’t know anything about cats. Feed her and if she gets hurt, I’ll take a look.”

“Great. As always, thanks for your help.”

He’s almost gone when she starts, “Have you heard from–”

“If she wants to see me, she’ll find me,” he says. “If she wants to see you, she’ll find you.”

The cat brushes up against his legs as they leave, and he leans down to pet her, reluctant.

“Next time, you can bite her, okay?” he asks, and the cat purrs.

*

Lincoln is away when the cat shows up, so Octavia is staying with Bellamy. She claims it’s because it’s winter and it makes more sense to only heat one of the cabins, but he knows she’s lonely. It’s not like he isn’t, so he has trouble objecting.

He tries to get the cat to sleep with her, because she’s the one who wanted the thing in the first place, but despite all his efforts, the cat still likes him best.

“I read somewhere that’s normal for cats,” Monty tells him. Monty is the cat’s second favorite; Octavia, Raven, and Miller all pretty much share third. “The more you don’t like them, the more they like you, just to get on your nerves.”

“Then why does she like you?” he grumbles.

“Everyone likes me,” says Monty, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The cat rubs her face against his chin and the smile strengthens; Bellamy pets her out of general gratitude. Not enough things make Monty smile these days.

“Does she have a name yet?”

“Why would she have a name?” he asks.

“What, the Emperor Augustus didn’t have a cat?” Octavia asks, from her bed.

“Shut up, O.”

“Sphinx,” she says. “We could call her Sphinx.”

“I’m not calling her anything. She’s not my cat. If you want to call her that, knock yourself out.”

“She’s your cat,” says O, watching as the cat pads over to curl in Bellamy’s lap.

“When are you moving out again?”

“As soon as possible,” she says, but she’s smiling too, and he feels a smile of his own tug the corner of his mouth. Not much of one, but–it’s a start.

*

As soon as Lincoln gets back, he demands to see the cat.

“It’s just a cat,” Bellamy says. Of course, it’s the one time he wants to find her, so he can’t. Fucking cats. “She’s a pain in my ass.”

“I very much doubt it’s just a cat,” says Lincoln.

“Please don’t tell me cats are some weird omen for you guys. She’s been here for a couple weeks and nothing’s gone wrong. No more than usual.”

Lincoln regards him. “You may not believe this.”

He rubs his face. “If you tell me my cat is magic, I swear to god–”

“I thought she wasn’t your cat,” says Octavia.

“The cat.”

“Octavia said she was gold with blue eyes.”

“More like tan,” he says. “Don’t get romantic about the cat, O.”

“Cats aren’t very common,” he says, slowly. “Not–most of them didn’t survive. But sometimes people lose their way. Sometimes, they lose their way so deeply that they lose themselves. When they’ve done something terrible.”

Bellamy feels his jaw tighten. “If this is going where I think it’s going–”

“Have you ever said her name?” he asks. “Has the cat heard it?”

“You think me and the cat have heart-to-hearts about–anything?”

“I understand this isn’t something you want to think about.”

Bellamy can think of few things he wants to think about less than the possibility that his–that Clarke got turned into a fucking cat who followed him home. He’s been changing clothes in front of her, among other things.

“I know how this sounds, but we have these stories because we’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen it. If you called her, she might come back to herself,“ he says, and Bellamy can’t help letting out a bitter little sound.

“Yeah, because that worked so well the last time.”

*

The cat doesn’t show up for a week, and he starts to get worried. It’s not like he thinks the cat could actually be Clarke, but he’d feel better if he could tell Lincoln he called the cat Clarke and nothing happened.

He’d feel best if he called the cat Clarke and Clarke showed up by chance at that exact same moment, but he’s staying realistic here. He’d settle for knowing the cat isn’t dead or something. That’s all he’s expecting to get.

He’s out hunting again when he hears a plaintive mewl from a few feet away and finds her stuck in a trap, leg bloody.

“Shit,” he says, scrambling over. “Shit. Why did you go so far away? I was looking for you.” He cuts the trap open, pulls her out onto his lap gently. She was too thin when she found him, but she’d been putting on weight. Now it’s mostly gone again. “Who doesn’t check their traps every day?” he mutters. The leg is raw and bloody, but the damage doesn’t look permanent. It’s her front paw, so it’ll be an arm wound if she’s really–

He swallows, pets the cat’s head as she nuzzles against him. “Were you running from Lincoln? Do you–”

It’s nearly impossible to say, it’s been so long. He hasn’t said her name out loud since she left, and she’s been gone for longer than he knew her in the first place.

Maybe it’s long enough for her to completely lose herself.

“Clarke,” he says, bundling the cat against his chest. “Clarke, Clarke, Clarke.”

“Bellamy,” she says, her voice hoarse and full of wonder, and he holds on tighter.


	11. Follow Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I found your tumblr but you don’t know and ugh now you’re posting about your crush on this cute person oh wait is that me?
> 
> For [mistlepop](http://mistlepop.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke didn’t go looking for Bellamy’s Tumblr.

She would have, obviously. If she’d realized he had one, she wouldn’t have rested until she’d tracked it down, but it had never even  _occurred_  to her that he might. Bellamy just doesn’t seem like the Tumblr kind of guy. Clarke has one because she likes drawing and ranting about representation in TV shows, and while she knew Bellamy was someone who liked to get into social justice fights on the internet, she assumed his medium was Facebook or Metafilter or Twitter. Which is probably kind of sexist, but, well,  _Bellamy Blake_. On  _Tumblr_. It just does not compute.

And, honestly, she does talk about Tumblr sometimes. Not in a weird way, just the subject will occasionally come up in conversation; she’ll mention something that happened to one of her mutuals or some interesting trivia she saw, and Bellamy has never done the same or indicated he has any knowledge of the website outside of her blog. So if anyone had asked, Clarke would have said he didn’t have a Tumblr and moved on with her life.

But then he pops up on her dash.

It’s one of those posts where someone has put up some pictures of themselves in costume with a weird caption, and other people add their own costumed pictures in response. Bellamy’s right there in the middle in the Roman centurion armor Clarke helped Octavia and Raven make for him back in college, holding up his gladius. Her friend has even tagged it  _#that roman guy tho_ , when she scrolls down to look, and then she has to scroll back up and stare again, because– _Bellamy Blake_. On Tumblr. In armor.

His blog is called ask-a-history-dude because of course it is, and he describes himself as  _Twenty- (almost thirty-) something history buff, specializing in postcolonialism but very broadly read. Here to help with papers, minutiae, and general weird trivia. All questions welcome._  It makes her smile, because Bellamy loves teaching  _so much_  that it’s not enough for him to be a history professor and tutor high-school kids in his spare time; he also runs a history blog. She’s even liked some of his posts, a few she’s seen reblogged about the Hamilton musical and colonial history and stuff.

In fact, she realizes, as she scans through his blog, she fucking  _emailed him one of these posts_  because she thought he’d like it. He just responded,  _Cool, thanks, I’ll take a look_ , and it’s that, more than anything, that makes her decide not to tell him she knows about the blog. He has had every opportunity to tell her, and he just played dumb, so–yeah. She’s not going to mention it either. Instead, she sets up a secondary account just to follow him, so he won’t know, and feels a little bit bad, but it’s not like his Tumblr is anything personal. All he does is answer history questions. And she loves listening to Bellamy talk about history. Of course she wants to follow his dumb blog. And she doesn’t want him to get self-conscious about it.

It doesn’t make her feel totally better about stalking him, but it makes her feel okay enough that she’s willing to do it.

And it’s a great site. He’s smart and funny, articulate, sarcastic without being mean, and really helpful. All the things she’s come to expect from Bellamy, once she realized he wasn’t nearly as much of an asshole as he liked to pretend to be. It’s really fucking  _nice_ , seeing his posts every day, watching him take apart assholes who send him shitty anon hate, giving kids resources to write better papers, sharing his favorite historical anecdotes.

She makes her way through his archives slowly. He doesn’t talk much about himself, but she can recognize the bare bones of  _him_  in the posts, references to his sister and his friends, even things  _she’s told him_. He calls her his best friend when he mentions her, and it makes her heart race every time she sees it. Not that she’s not, not that she doesn’t think of him the same way, for all she met Octavia first, but they’ve never talked about it, and she can’t help loving that all his followers know her as that.

Every month or so, he’ll answer what must be his most popular personal question, some variation on  _Are you single?_  His answer is always the same:  _I don’t know why anyone cares, but I’m still straight, unattached, and don’t want nudes. Any nudes. At all. Thanks._

Clarke doesn’t blame them for caring. He deleted the post with his picture in it, but people clearly still remember he’s hot. Besides, she pokes him about it all the time, how long it’s been since he had a girlfriend, how great he is and how he deserves someone who recognizes that. It worked better when she was dating Lexa, but given she’s been single herself for over a year, now he just rolls his eyes and tells her he’ll start dating if she does. If it wasn’t such a pain, she’d find a date just to call his bluff, but no one’s caught her eye lately. Besides, she and Bellamy are the only single ones in their group of friends currently, and going to find someone else when she could just hang out with him is just really unappealing.

She’s been following him on tumblr for three weeks when he hits his monthly  _still single_  post, but this one is different. It’s a question from an actual user, not an anon, and she’s not surprised when she clicks through and sees the kid is only fourteen, because it’s so adorably earnest:  _I know you’ve said you’re single, but I wanted_ _to know why? You seem like a great guy, there must be lots of women who would love to date you. What do you look for in a girl? What’s your type?_

It’s the first time she’s really felt bad not telling him she’s reading, because he never talks about this stuff, always shrugs it off. He doesn’t want her to know about his love life, but she’s not a good enough person to resist reading his answer.

_I’ve definitely had girlfriends, if it makes you feel better. At some point, I realized my relationships weren’t going well, and I figured out why, so I stopped dating. My type is very, very specific and she’s not interested, so I’m not looking for anything until I get over that. And, seriously, don’t send follow-up questions on this, I’m not answering them. I’m not looking for pity, and if anyone even hints at the word friendzone, I’ll find you and end you. She’s my best friend and I’m really lucky to have her in my life._

Clarke stares at the post in muted horror for what feels like forever, because–it can’t be  _her_. It can’t. He says she’s not interested, and Clarke’s never told him that. They’ve never talked about it. He has no reason to think she’s not into him, except that she’s never said anything about it, but it’s not like he’s said anything either.

It’s not as if no one’s raised the possibility of the two of them before. They’ve been friends since she met Octavia her junior year of college, because Bellamy follows Octavia naturally, and every time she introduces him to another friend, they’ll ask about him as a romantic prospect, and she always dances around the question because she  _does_  love Bellamy, but she’s never let herself think about it. Because she thought he wasn’t interested, and if she’d let herself fall for him, she would have been  _miserable_.

He could mean someone else, of course. He has other close female friends. But  _she’s_  the one he’s quoting when he talks about his best friend, and he’s not allowed to be in love with Raven or Echo or anyone else. Not when he could be in love with  _her_.

And he did say he’d start dating when she did. 

Bellamy knows Clarke’s Tumblr, which is why she didn’t follow him with it in the first place. He reads it sometimes, occasionally asks about stuff she’s posted. She thought he just checked it sometimes, but maybe he’s got his own secondary account that follows her too. Maybe he sends her cute anon messages.

He’s answered another question when she reloads her dash, and he started the reply with  _Seriously, I don’t want follow-ups on that, let’s talk about history, guys_  so he’s probably online right now, dealing with weird fallout.

She hits his ask box and says,  _But what if I want to hear more about your type?_  using her own account, before she can lose her nerve.

Then she goes and starts cleaning her apartment, primarily because her entire body feels on the verge of exploding. She’s twenty-five, she’s not supposed to be giddy with anticipation over a boy. Even if he’s her favorite boy in the entire world.

Fifteen minutes later, she has no new messages, but Bellamy hasn’t posted anything either. Maybe he’s not actually online. Maybe he’d just assumed he’d get a billion messages about his post and put the note in the next answer in his queue, knowing it would blow up. Maybe he got so many messages hers got lost and he didn’t see it.

Maybe he’s in love with Raven.

She’s scrubbing her bathtub when the she hears the door buzzer. She’s not expecting anyone, but it’s been about twenty-five minutes, which is roughly the right amount of time if Bellamy was in his apartment when he saw the message, left immediately, and got lucky with the train.

“Hi,” he says, when she opens the door. He looks intense, and Clarke lets herself look at him like she usually never does, taking in the broadness of his shoulders, the smattering of freckles across his face. She adores Bellamy like she doesn’t adore anyone else, and he’s an idiot if he didn’t tell her he wanted her. If he didn’t even make sure she didn’t feel the same.

“Hey,” she says.

His jaw works, and he finally says, “You knew?”

“Only for a couple weeks. You, um–you posted a picture of yourself a while ago. You deleted it again, I guess, but reblogs are forever. It hit my dash.” She can’t help smiling. “You always take any excuse to put on your armor.”

“Fuck,” he says.

“I sent you one of your own posts, you know. Before I found out.”

“I know.” He rubs his face. “I knew I shouldn’t have answered that stupid fucking question.”

“You should have,” she says, tugs him into the apartment. “Or you just should have told me. Unless you meant Raven.” She pauses. “Even if you meant Raven. But I hope you meant me.”

She sees his throat work as he swallows. “You do?”

“Don’t say girls aren’t interested in you unless you checked, dumbass,” she says, flicking his temple. “How long?”

“When you were dating Lexa,” he admits. “Well, longer, but that’s when I figured it out. I didn’t want to be a dick. You had a girlfriend, and then you guys broke up and you were upset. And then you kept trying to convince me to date other people.”

“Well, you’re a catch.”

“Clarke,” he says, a little strangled, and she realizes she hasn’t really said it. Not that he has either, but–he did kind of pour his heart out on Tumblr. Enough of his heart.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you when I sent you the post?” she asks instead. She doesn’t know how to take the next step yet.

“I don’t know. It was embarrassing.”

“It’s sweet,” she says. “I love that you’re helping random internet kids with their history homework.”

“Well, it’s kind of fun.” He slides his hand up to rest on her hip, smiling at her, fond. “Clarke.”

“You should have told me. I thought you were–I would have said yes in half a second.”

“You say that, but I’ve been here for like five minutes and you still haven’t said yes yet.”

“You haven’t asked.”

He leans in, close enough to kiss her, but holding off. His nose brushes hers. “I love you,” he murmurs, soft, and her heart flips over.

“Good,” she breathes and then, belatedly, “Yes.”

The next month, Clarke helps him pick which of his many weird personal asks to answer; he has some more explicit ones, some rude ones, some talking about how romantic he is, some offering to help him get over her. She finally picks  _She’s an idiot if she’s not interested in you_ ; it’s definitely her favorite.

“You’re so popular,” she teases, nosing his neck, and he makes a face.

“I never should have posted those pictures.”

“I’m really glad you did.”

He breaks out in a grin and kisses her. “Okay, yeah, but–think about how many hearts we’re about to break.”

“You don’t have to tell them.”

“I’m honest with my followers, Clarke. If I don’t tell them the truth about myself, how can they trust me?”

“They’d never know. You just want to brag.”

“That too.” He flexes his fingers. “Okay.  _My girlfriend would like the record to show I never asked if she was interested, and I’m the idiot for assuming. I’m also no longer single, so she might have a point._ ” He nuzzles her temple. “Acceptable?”

“If you tagged me, I bet I’d get hate-mail.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m not.”

“I thought you were being honest with them.”

“Give it a couple months for them to get used to it. You act like I’ve never dealt with high-school girls who want to marry me before.”

She has to laugh. “I can’t believe I forgot how popular you are with teenagers.”

“Shut up.” He adds  _Again, no follow-ups. I appreciate everyone’s support, but this account is for history stuff, not me stuff. She’s amazing and I love her, end of personal aside._

“Very cute.”

“Shut up.”

Later, when he’s grading and she’s dicking around on her laptop, she reblogs the post and adds,  _Can we get back to politics? Please. Yo._  and tags it with  _#my dork boyfriend_ , which is her standard tag for him. She doesn’t run an ask blog, after all; she mentions her personal life all the time. All her internet friends are excited for her.

She knows exactly when he sees the reblog because he snorts and nudges her with his foot. “I’m not the dork in this relationship,” he says.

“You’re the one with the history blog. You make way more Hamilton references than I do.”

He doesn’t bother responding, presumably because she’s right, but he reblogs it again with  _Thanks for your help, babe._

She gets like a hundred new followers and only a few weird anon messages asking for overly personal information about Bellamy, which she considers a win.

The next month, he publishes an ask of hers, which just says,  _You’re super dreamy, do you have a girlfriend????_  and responds with five different face-palming gifs. He tags it  _#reminder: this is my actual girlfriend_  and just keeps reblogging it, every month, with the same tag.

“How long are you going to keep doing that?” she asks, after the sixth time.

“Uh, until people stop asking if I’m single, I shut the blog down, or we break up. Whichever comes first.”

As it turns out, he shuts the blog down before either of the others happens, which doesn’t particularly surprise Clarke. After all, he’s super dreamy; of course people want him to be single again.

But she’s never letting him go.


	12. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Could you do a fic about the gang going on a winter retreat to a cottage kind of thing with sled races and snowball fights and there Bellamy and Clarke find out they like each other and have a beautiful moment? 
> 
> For [mikalas-other-world](http://mikalas-other-world.tumblr.com/)!

“So, how hard did you make Octavia beg?” Clarke asks. Bellamy raises his eyebrows at Clarke, not entirely sure how to respond. She grins and adds, “I know you like pretending you don’t like us.”

“Spending Christmas alone is even sadder than spending Christmas with your sister’s friends,” he says, like Octavia didn’t make exactly one argument to convince him to come:  _Clarke’s going_.

“So, do you have a chart you consult to decide what life choice would be most pathetic, or is there an app for that now?”

“You’re making me regret offering to give you a ride,” he says. It’s an obvious lie; Clarke knows she’s his favorite, although he hopes she doesn’t know exactly what that entails.

“Please, you can’t even use your own GPS. You’d die on the way to the cabin and miss out on all the winter fun.”

“How terrible.”

“You secretly like fun. We all know it.”

“I brought my laptop. I’m working.”

“Of course you are.” She grins at him. “But we’re going to have a good time.”

“Uh huh,” he says, putting on his sunglasses and starting the car. “Keep telling yourself that.”

*

The cabin was Octavia and Wells’ idea, because they believe in the magic of Christmas or something. It’s actually pretty cool, he has to admit, if you’re into winter wonderland shit. Bellamy didn’t think he particularly was, but that was before he saw Clarke, all dressed up for a snowball fight.

He’s always thought Clarke was cute bundled up for cold weather–okay, he always thinks she’s cute, but whatever–but she’s usually kind of grumpy about the whole thing. He’s never actually seen her excited about winter, but she’s like a kid now, bushy scarf and pom-pommed hat and so fucking excited about the fort she’s going to make. He doesn’t get to see her happy nearly enough. There’s probably no such thing as seeing her happy enough.

“You going to have fun?” she asks, bumping her hip against his. Most of their friends have paired off, either as genuine couples–Monty and Miller, Jasper and Maya–or hopeful couples–Octavia and Lincoln, Wells and Raven–leaving him and Clarke to themselves. He knows Octavia, at least, counts the two of them among the hopeful couples, but he can’t quite get there. He’s too aware of being four years older than she is, how she thinks of him as an older brother too.

“Fun?”

“It’s a  _snowball fight_. Stop pretending you’re older and wiser than we are and enjoy yourself, okay?”

“Yeah, it’s a snowball fight,” he agrees. “So that means it’s fucking  _war_ , Clarke. I’m not going to have fun. I’m going to win.”

She grins, and he can’t keep up his serious facade. He tries to only let himself see her twice a week, for his own sanity, and an entire ten days with her is probably going to be fatal. He’s going to do something so stupid. “In your dreams,” she says. “I’m going to have a  _fort_.”

*

Monty and Jasper are, apparently, the kings of cliched Christmas activities. It’s kind of nauseating, really–snowball fights, snowmen, sledding, and s'mores and a fireplace when they get back inside. The whole nine yards. They got cross-country skis, snowshoes, and ice skates, and they even found a place they could go out and cut down their own tree, which mostly involves Bellamy sawing a lot while everyone else heckles him.

It’s far from bad, but it feels a little like living in a Norman Rockwell painting or holiday commercial; Jasper is definitely going to propose. Maybe Monty too. Maybe they’re going to do some kind of horrific joint proposal. That sounds like them.

To make matters worse, Octavia and Lincoln hooked up like the first night, so his sister has been both incredibly smug and overly invested in meddling with him. 

She flops down next to him on Tuesday and remarks, “You know this is the most romantic thing that’s going to happen to you basically ever, right?”

Bellamy is technically working remotely while he’s here, so he’s on his laptop, watching absently as Monty and Raven direct Clarke, Wells, and Miller on building some sort of weird snow creation. It’s not quite as good as participating himself, but he does have a reputation as being old and grumpy to maintain. “I really hope that’s not true,” he says.

“I’m just saying, love is in the air.”

“That’s cinnamon. Easy mistake to make.”

“Bell,” says Octavia, and she actually sounds concerned, which is terrifying. “Seriously. Why don’t you tell her?”

He pauses, thinks it over. Octavia met Lincoln last year, when she was still recovering from the unexpected death of her boyfriend, but once she felt recovered, everything had moved pretty quickly for her. She had a  _plan_. Meanwhile, Bellamy has known Clarke since he was seventeen and been half in love with her since she came to visit O during spring break of their sophomore year of college. When she graduated and ended up moving back to the city, he’d fallen the rest of the way, but three years later, he’s as clueless about how to tell her about it as ever.

“The timing always sucks,” he says. “There was Lexa, then Finn–”

“And now?”

“And now I’m basically her dorky big brother,” he says. “I’m fine, O. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re not her big brother.” She worries her lip. “She totally had a crush on you. At a lot of times in her life.”

“Including now?”

“We haven’t talked about it recently,” O admits. “But she hasn’t mentioned anyone else either.”

“Please tell me you didn’t set up an entire vacation just to hook me up with Clarke,” he says. “We had to rent a house. I can fail to flirt with her anywhere. We didn’t need to skip town.”

“Not just you,” says O. “It was for me and Wells too. You’re a fringe benefit.”

“Great,” he says. “As long as you didn’t go to any trouble.”

*

Wednesday, they go sledding and Wells makes a giant dinner and they stay up late playing Cards Against Humanity, but it’s still not enough for Clarke, which doesn’t surprise him at all. He’s not sure who else actually remembers the date–Wells certainly will, and probably Raven and Octavia–but no one else tries to wait up with her. He appreciates everyone’s support with his stupid crush, but as far as he’s concerned, the ideal time to hit on a girl is not on the anniversary of her father’s death.

“You want hot chocolate?” he asks, once everyone else had made excuses and turned in.

“Can it be Irish?”

“Sure. Bailey’s, whiskey, some other booze?”

“Bailey’s.” She leans against the counter, smiling a little. “You can go to sleep, you know. I’m just not tired yet.”

“Clarke,” he says, gentle. “I know what day it is. I’ll leave if you want, but you don’t have to pretend like nothing is happening. Up to you.”

Her smile doesn’t widen so much as deepen; it’s still small, but so fond it makes his chest ache. He really shouldn’t have come. He should have known better. “Of course you remember,” she says.

Bellamy was there when Clarke’s dad died, completely by chance. It was Christmas, exactly ten years ago, so he was home from school. He hadn’t realized how he felt about her yet, but he’ll never forget holding her as she cried her eyes out, him on her left and Octavia on her right. “O probably does too, but–I guess she figured I’d do better with it.”

“Wells too,” she says. She looks like she’s going to say more, but instead just shakes her head. “Raven offered to stay up and I sent her to bed.”

He nods, doesn’t say anything more as he putters around to make the cocoa. It’s snowing outside, and everything feels soft and safe in the small kitchen. He hopes it’s as comforting for her as it is for him.

“Here,” he says, sliding the mug across the counter to her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No, don’t go,” she says, catching his sleeve. “Please.”

“Sure.”

She doesn’t let go of his arm, tugs him over to the couch in front of the bright tree. “I’m actually fine,” she says.

“I know,” he assures her, and she pokes him. “I mean it,” he says, teasing.

“You’re a jerk,” she says, but she’s smiling too. “Do you know this is the most time we’ve spent together since I moved here?”

“This is the most time I’ve spent with anyone since I stopped having a roommate,” he says, deliberately casual, because of course he knows exactly what she means.

“I’m just saying,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. “We could hang out more. I like hanging out with you.”

He closes his eyes and leans back against her. “We could, yeah.”

*

The next morning, he wakes up on the couch with Clarke’s arms wrapped around him and half their friends watching with interest, like they’re some kind of roadside attraction.

“You guys get creepier every day,” he remarks, but he can’t actually move, because it would dislodge Clarke and wake her up. “If you’re just going to hang out being weird, you could at least get me some coffee.”

“We’re going skating,” Raven says, but she does bring him coffee, so she’s his favorite. “Are you going to wake her up or stay here?”

“I’m awake,” Clarke says, and she does sound pretty alert. He wasn’t blushing before, but he definitely is now. Maybe they’ll think it’s the coffee.

Miracles can happen, right?

“Skating?” she continues, untangling herself and stretching.

“Unless Bell threw out his back sleeping on the couch,” Octavia teases, and Bellamy flips her off.

“I suck at skating,” he says. “Let the record show it has nothing to do with my back.”

“Noted,” says Clarke. “I’ve got you.”

If it was up to him, Bellamy would just slide around in his boots, but Clarke promises she’ll hold his hand the whole time if he wears skates. It’s the kind of thing he should pass on, but he is very weak.

Of course, they’re wearing gloves, so he doesn’t get most of the benefits of hand-holding, and all he really does is flail around and then drag her down with him when he crashes into a snowbank.

“Fuck, sorry,” he says, spluttering, but Clarke is laughing.

“I thought you were exaggerating,” she says, face pressed against his neck.

“I skated like once at a birthday party in middle school,” he says.

She raises her face to smile at him, and there are snowflakes in her hair and her cheeks are flushed, so the kiss feels inevitable. He doesn’t know how to not kiss her, just for a second.

And then he doesn’t know how he ever did it, so he pulls back. “Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

She leans back in and kisses the apology off his lips, kisses him deep and hot and perfect, and doesn’t stop until someone hits her with a snowball.

“Bellamy is going to freeze to death!” Miller calls. Everyone is watching them again, but it’s probably justified this time. “Make out inside, Jesus.”

He realizes the snow is melting into his coat and he is, in fact, freezing, but he’s still too shocked to do anything but stare at Clarke.

“Make out inside?” she suggests, sliding off him and offering him a hand out of the snowbank.

“Make out inside,” he agrees, and lets her tug him to his feet and back to the house.


	13. Consultations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke + I unknowingly drank the spiked eggnog and am more than a little tipsy ?
> 
> For [jingleclarkes](http://jingleclarkes.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy hadn’t liked Clarke Griffin when she first showed up; no one had.  _Consultant_  is a bullshit job to begin with, and theirs is fresh out of college with absolutely no life experience and no idea of how their company works. He has no interest in some perky blonde kid telling him how to do his job, or, even worse, telling him he  _can’t_  do his fucking job. Everyone knows the only reason management brought a consultant in to begin with is that they wanted to fire people without getting blamed for layoffs themselves. It’s like back when he was in elementary school and some kid wouldn’t like what he was doing, but instead of just asking him to stop, they went and told the teacher. It just makes everything worse.

But over the past few months, Bellamy has found he kind of likes Clarke. They put her in the cubical next to his, and she’s kind of fun. She’s obsessed with brightly colored post-it notes and swears under her breath  _all the time_  about how shitty their internal software is. It’s endearing. Plus, she’s smart and sarcastic and so prickly that he can’t help finding it cute. Not that he blames her for her prickliness; she’s an external consultant who’s making a list of people to fire, and everyone else still hates her. But it’s not her fault. She’s a messenger, and the company is paying her to get shot. He honestly feels a little bad for her.

So when she shows up at the company holiday party and Murphy says, “Fuck, she’s got a lot of nerve,” Bellamy just rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, how dare she show up to a company party she was invited to. Don’t be a dick, Murphy.”

It’s impossible not to notice she looks good, too. Part of him still feels like she’s so  _young_ , his sister’s age, but the rest of him is forced to acknowledge that his sister is old enough to be a real person, and so is Clarke.

“She’s a fucking consultant. She’s probably going to fire you.”

“She’s going to make recommendations and the company will decide if they’re going to fire me,” he says. “Leave her alone.”

Murphy scoffs, and Bellamy leaves the conversation, mostly because Murphy is actually a dick all the time and he has no desire to interact with him, even leaving aside the Clarke thing.

She’s talking to Cage Wallace, a brittle smile pasted on her face, and Bellamy wonders if there’s any way for him to save her. Even if he did hate her, no one deserves to have to talk to Cage Wallace.

So he snags a couple cups of eggnog and goes over, giving her a friendlier smile than he probably ever has before, like they’re close. “Hey, sorry for interrupting, I saw you didn’t have a drink.”

Her returning smile is bright and seems genuine. “Bellamy! Hi, thanks.”

Bellamy has been working here for longer than Cage has and knows more than Cage does, and Cage basically hates him for it. The feeling is mutual. “Bellamy,” he says, with a curt nod. “I didn’t know you knew Clarke.”

Everyone knows Clarke, but pointing that out is probably needlessly combative, given it’s a party and Cage is his boss. “Yeah, we’re deskmates.”

“How’s your sister, by the way?” Clarke asks, and it’s takes real effort for him to not gape. But he manages to just smile as Clarke adds, “Sorry, Cage, I went to college with his sister, we haven’t gotten to talk in a while. Hard to catch up at work.”

“Of course. I’ll find you later.”

“Please don’t,” she mutters, making Bellamy smile into his drink.

“Did you actually go to college with my sister, or was that just some lucky bullshit?”

“Octavia, right? We had a class together my last semester. We’re not best buddies or anything, but I saw she was a mutual friend when I was Facebook-stalking you.” She flushes and takes a long drink of her eggnog. “I maybe shouldn’t have pre-gamed this.”

“You pre-gamed this?”

“I did two shots with my roommate because everyone who works here either hates me or is an asshole or both.”

He considers this, taking a drink from his own cup. She’s not wrong, but he’d kind of hoped she didn’t know. Just for her sake. “Yeah, okay, fair enough.”

She flashes him a rueful smile and toasts him with her drink. “Thanks for the rescue, though.”

“No problem. No one should have to talk to Cage.”

She finishes the eggnog and sighs. “I’m definitely going to have to eventually. But feel free to rescue me any time. And say hi to Octavia for me.”

He figures it’s a good sign she doesn’t want to hang out with him, which is kind of a letdown, but he tries not to let it get to him. He is, after all, kind of an asshole. But he would have liked to talk to her about O, or herself, or–anything, honestly.

He frowns at the eggnog; it doesn’t  _taste_  that spiked, but Miller made it, and Miller has never met a drink he doesn’t spike. And he’s great at masking it. So that’s probably why he’s watching Clarke’s hair as she walks away.

“How much rum is in the eggnog?” he asks, sidling up to Miller.

“Enough.” He considers Bellamy. “Which reminds me, Murphy’s got your consultant girlfriend pounding them like it’s her job.”

There’s a lot wrong with that sentence, but Bellamy focuses on the most relevant part. “Where?”

Miller jerks his head, and Bellamy sees Murphy and Anya talking to Clarke. Clarke looks to be drinking primarily as a defense against having to talk to them, for which he can’t blame her. Murphy is a dick and Anya hates the entire company generally and Clarke especially.

“Fuck,” he says. “You couldn’t have helped her out?”

“I’m bartending. And she’s not  _my_  consultant girlfriend.”

“You could have cut them off.”

Miller shrugs, and Bellamy flips him off, grabs another drink of his own, and makes his way over.

“So, tell us more about Cage,” Murphy is saying, and Clarke is glaring at him.

“Hey, Clarke, we didn’t get to talk about Octavia at all,” he says, glaring at Murphy even harder than Clarke is.

“Blake–” Murphy starts, and Bellamy shoves the drink at him.

“Enjoy,” he says. “Clarke, I need you over here.”

“Hey, Bellamy, you’re back,” she says, grinning.

She seems more tipsy than actually  _drunk_ , so maybe she’s not as badly off as Miller thought. And she seems happy, that’s a nice bonus.

“I’m back,” he says. He gives Murphy a hard look; Anya’s already wandered off. “What class were you and O in?” he asks, pointed.

“Shakespeare’s comedies.”

“She liked that class.”

“Yeah, it was awesome! I know Shakespeare is kind of–everyone likes Shakespeare. But he can be really cool, you know? And bisexual. Bisexuals represent.”

Bellamy smiles. “Bisexuals represent,” he agrees. “How much eggnog did you have?”

“I don’t know, three? Who cares?”

“You know there was booze in those, right?”

There’s a pause, and then she says, “Ohhhhhh,” like someone is letting air out of her. Bellamy muffles a smile. “That explains a lot. Murphy was like, have more, have more! It seemed weirdly nice, for him.”

“Yeah, no, he was probably trying to get you fired.”

“And you’re not?”

“Why would I be trying to get you fired?” he asks, frowning.

“You hate me. I’m some–” She gestures. “I’m a consultant, I’m going to gut your company.”

“Not my company. And if you fire me, the whole place is going to fall apart, so–”

“You’re not getting fired,” she says. “Not if they listen to me, anyway. But I assume they’ll just do whatever they want and blame it on me once I’m gone.”

“God, I thought you were a happy drunk,” he teases, and she smiles.

“I just wish you didn’t hate me.”

“I don’t.”

“Really?”

“No. You’re fine.” She still looks unconvinced, so he sighs. “Come on, let’s get some air. It’ll sober you up.”

She glances around, spots a plate of cookies, and grabs it. “I’m coming,” she says. “But these will also sober me up, right? Carbs.”

He snorts. “Uh huh. Sure they will.”

It’s cool, but not cold, outside–Bellamy’s from Maine, and as far as he’s concerned, DC winters just aren’t anything to worry about. But Clarke’s wearing a sleeveless dress, and she shivers a little, so he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders.

“I figured you had me down as an asshole, not hating you,” he offers, conversational.

“On my good days,” she says. She draws the jacket around herself. “But then I said I was Facebook-stalking you, I figured that would freak you out.”

He snorts. “Everyone Facebook-stalks these days. I don’t even notice.” He takes one of the cookies. “You should have told me you knew O. Or told her you know me. She would have told you I’m not a total asshole.”

“I know you’re not.” She starts to giggle, which is mildly alarming. “Cage is a total asshole. I’m going to tell them to fire him.”

Bellamy finds himself smiling. “He’s the boss’s son. They’re not going to fire him.”

“They should, though. They hired me to tell them what to do with the business, and I’m telling them. Fire Cage, pay you more.”

“Me specifically?”

“Everyone at your level. But yeah, you specifically. You’ve been here for almost ten years, you’re smart and capable and hard-working, and honestly, you should probably be looking for a better job somewhere they’ll appreciate you.”

He laughs. “I hope you weren’t telling Murphy any of this.”

“Murphy’s lucky to have the job he has.” She flushes. “So am I. God, I can’t believe I got drunk at the company Christmas party and hit on my hot coworker. Could I get any more cliche?”

“When did you hit on your hot coworker?” he asks, frowning.

“I’m still working on it,” she says. There’s a flush on her cheeks. “I figured I’d just Facebook-stalk him until my contract was up. So it’s not morally weird.”

Bellamy’s heart skips a beat. “When is your contract up?”

“Sometime in January.”

“Well, send me the exact date. I’ll check my calendar.”

*

The next morning, he’s got a Facebook friend request from Clarke Griffin, and when he confirms it, she messages him,  _January 8. Thanks for looking out for me last night._

_No problem. Free for dinner that night? I’ll bring eggnog._  he replies.

_Fuck you_ , she says. And then, even better,  _(Yes.)_


	14. Potential Mistletoe Catastrophe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mistletoe + "Outright refusal to kiss you because I'm scared I'll like it too much" for Bellarke?
> 
> For [clarityandwit](http://clarityandwit.tumblr.com/)!

“You need to come deal with this,” Raven says, and Lincoln can just  _feel_  the stress headache building between his temples. It’s a  _party_. It is supposed to be nothing but friends and fun and good times. He’s supposed to be drinking socially, not to self-medicate.

“What?” he asks.

“Your roommate and your girlfriend’s brother are under the mistletoe.”

“Are they ripping each other’s clothes off?” Lincoln asks. Clarke’s crush on Bellamy Blake is longstanding and ridiculous; she’s convinced it’s hopeless and unrequited, and everyone else in the world can see they’re perfect for each other.

“They’re fighting.”

“ _Fighting_? About what?”

“You’ll see,” says Raven. “Octavia is trying to mediate, but–seriously, it’s fucking ridiculous.”

The one sprig of mistletoe in the entire apartment is over the door between the living room and the kitchen, and it’s fairly obvious. He assumed anyone who got stuck under it would be under there by choice; he and Octavia were under there twice, Raven and Wells once, and Jasper and Monty a couple times because they think it’s fun. It  _is_  fun. It’s Clarke and Bellamy who are wrong, because they’re not taking it as an excuse to make out. Instead, Clarke looks genuinely upset, and Bellamy has apparently decided to deal with it by being an asshole. 

Raven is right, this is potentially catastrophic.

“What, do you think I’ll bite?” Bellamy is sneering.

“Fuck you. I wouldn’t kiss you with someone else’s mouth.”

Honestly, Lincoln doesn’t know how they do it. If they could ever get on the same page and stop competing over who can care less, they’d be great together. Unfortunately, knowing them, they’ll probably kill each other first.

But not if Lincoln has anything to say about it.

“Clarke!” he says, all fake cheer. “There you are. I need your help. I heard a crash, I think the cats are breaking things in my room.”

As lies go, it’s shitty, but Clarke doesn’t need much of an excuse. Her smile is tight, but he can see the gratitude and relief in her eyes. “Fuck. How much breaking?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t have a lot of glass, but I think they found it.”

“Of course they did.”

She tries to slip past Bellamy, but he catches her wrist. “Seriously? You’re actually going to  _run away_  from kissing me?”

“I’m sure you’ll live,” she says. “I’m sure you can make sure you pass by someone else you’d rather kiss. You’re a resourceful guy.” His jaw works like he’s going to keep arguing, but Clarke jerks her arm from his grasp and leaves the doorway, giving Lincoln a too-bright smile. “Come on, cats need us.”

He meets Octavia’s eyes and gives her a look; Octavia nods slightly, which means she’ll deal with her brother while he deals with Clarke. The usual.

His bedroom is clean, of course, and the cats hiding under his bed out of fear of all the guests. Clarke lets out a shuddering breath once they’re alone and says, “Sorry.”

“What happened?”

“We ran into each other on the way to the living room. Jasper pointed out the mistletoe and he got all–stupid and cocky and Bellamy. Telling me how he was going to ruin me for other men. I know he was just teasing, he didn’t even  _mean_  to be an asshole, but–fuck. He’s right, you know? Not–I don’t want to know what it’s like,” she admits, ducking her head. “I don’t want to kiss him once and find out–”

Something rises in Lincoln’s throat, horrible understanding and pity welling up inside him. “Clarke,” he says.

“I know it’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not. Or–it is. But I understand.”

She wipes at her eyes. “What a stupid fucking argument to get into. Fuck.  _I like you too much to kiss you_. I tried to play it off, but he was all hurt and pissed because he’s an idiot too and–thanks for the rescue.”

“Raven came to get me.”

“Glad I’m obviously a disaster,” she mutters, but a smile is finally tugging at her lips.

“You and Bellamy arguing is always a disaster. We have an emergency procedure.”

“You get me, Octavia gets him?”

“I’d like to say it’s more complicated than that, but–yes. That’s pretty much it.”

“Fuck. I should apologize.”

“Do you ever?”

“No. Forget apologizing, I should just develop feelings for someone I can interact with without screaming.”

“You  _do_. All the time.” He worries his lip. “You should just tell him how you feel, Clarke,” he adds, gentle. “He really does–”

Clarke goes so pale he’s afraid she’s going to pass out, and he turns with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach to see Bellamy lingering in the door, face unreadable. He likes Bellamy, most of the time–he’s Octavia’s brother, of course Lincoln likes him–but between the two of them, his first loyalty is to Clarke.

“I think I’ve got it from here,” Bellamy tells Lincoln, and it’s instinct to move closer to Clarke. Not to defend her, just so she has backup, if she wants it.

“I was just leaving,” Clarke says, too bright. “We cleaned up, so–”

“Clarke,” says Bellamy, his voice unlike Lincoln has ever heard. “I really,  _really_ want to kiss you. I was going to win you over with my awesome skills. That was my plan. We get under the mistletoe, I, uh. Ruin you for other men. And you fall in love with me.”

Lincoln feels Clarke freeze in total disbelief, and he almost wants to laugh.  _Everyone_  knew, but he’d always been sure she somehow didn’t. She’d been so stubbornly sure that Bellamy couldn’t possibly want her.

“Because of your awesome skills,” Clarke repeats, starting to smile, and Lincoln sees Bellamy’s own smile tugging up in answer.

“Okay, so I probably could have come up with a better plan,” he says, coming into the room toward Clarke. “But the opportunity presented itself and it seemed so easy. Until you freaked out.”

“Sorry,” she says.

He shakes his head. “Did you, uh–” He licks his lips, eyes darting to Lincoln. “You could tell me how you feel,” he offers.

“No, no,” she says, and she’s full-on grinning now. “I want to hear about these awesome skills.”

“It’s more of a demonstration,” Bellamy says, as Lincoln closes the door.

They deserve some privacy.

He finds Octavia in the living room and wraps his arms around her. “Congratulations. I’m glad someone finally talked sense into one of them.”

“He did most of the work. I just asked him why he thought Clarke was so upset and he talked himself into apologizing to her.” She grins. “It went okay?”

“I assume so. I thought it would be inappropriate to keep watching.”

“If they kill each other now, it’s your fault,” says Octavia, but of course they don’t. They emerge from the bedroom flushed and grinning twenty minutes later, and the next time they pass by each other under the mistletoe, Bellamy leans down and kisses Clarke without incident.

“Totally ruined,” she says, tucking herself under Bellamy’s arm after he pulls away.

Bellamy presses his lips to her hair. “I hope so.”


	15. The Weather Outside is Frightful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bellarke + being snowed in at christmastime
> 
> For [thelightreflects](http://thelightreflects.tumblr.com/)!

“Fuck,” says Bellamy, putting his phone down and rubbing his face. “All flights canceled.”

Clarke has a guilty little twinge of happiness at the news, but she quashes it quickly. It sucks, and she knows it sucks. It just doesn’t suck for  _her_. “I’m so sorry, Bellamy.”

“It’s fine,” he says, and flashes her a grin, like it really is. “Honestly, I wasn’t really looking forward to meeting O’s boyfriend anyway.”

“The one she really likes and thinks she’s going to marry?”

“He’s an art  _and_  karate teacher and he’s like half a foot taller than I am. There’s no way he’s going to be scared of me. He’s even my age. He’s going to be my peer.”

“Wow, I feel so bad for you.”

“Your sympathy is always appreciated. I better call her.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna go get supplies, what do you need?”

“Uh, everything? Wait up.” His frown deepens. “You aren’t going to try to drive home now? You can probably still make it before the snow gets bad if you leave right now.”

Clarke worries her lip, but she might as well admit it. “I’m not going home.”

He slumps on the couch next to her. “Why not? Since when?”

“My mom is going to hang out with her new husband’s kids in Washington State. I’ve never met any of them, so–”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t seem important.” When he looks wholly unconvinced, she adds, “I didn’t want you to feel guilty and stay.”

“I wouldn’t have, I would have asked you to come home with me.”

Clarke smiles. Bellamy moved in a year ago, after Raven left, and despite some early road bumps, he’s mostly been the best Craigslist roommate she could have hoped for. At this point, he’s probably her best friend. “Well, that wouldn’t have worked out either, so no harm, no foul. Call your sister, I want to hit the store before it gets worse out there.”

The snow is already pretty bad, so they just go to the store around the corner, which luckily hasn’t closed yet. Bellamy frets over the girl behind the counter getting home okay while Clarke stocks up on things they can eat if the power goes out. They have a few small trees with pre-attached stands, too, so she grabs one of those. It’s  _Christmas_ , and Bellamy likes Christmas.

“Did you seriously give her your number?” she teases as they walk home.

“She’s working until eight,” he says. “What if she can’t get home?”

“You know she was like nineteen, right?”

“So?”

“So she’s totally going to hit on you. She’s going sext you.”

He makes a face. “She is not.”

“You’re hot. I bet she thought you were hitting on her.”

There’s a pause and then he says, “Hey, you bought a Christmas tree. Let’s talk about that.”

“Smooth transition.”

They don’t have much by way of decoration, because Clarke doesn’t care much and Bellamy usually spends Christmas with his sister, who handles the tree. She finds some lights she used to decorate her dorm room in college, Bellamy has some origami paper, so they spend the evening folding whatever patterns they can make with instructions from the Internet and hanging them with paper clips.

“You weren’t even going to get a tree?” he asks. He’s making cranes, mostly; apparently when he was in elementary school, a girl in his class got sick, and the teacher taught them all to make cranes, so they could put a thousand of them her hospital room. The muscle memory doesn’t go away.

“I thought about it, but–” The truth is, then he would have known, but she doesn’t want to admit she was hiding it that much. She doesn’t even know  _why_ , not really. Somehow, she hadn’t known how to spend Christmas with him, but now that she is, she has no idea why she was worried. She’s more excited about this Christmas than she has been about any since her father died.

Maybe that’s it.

“Christmas is a family holiday,” she says. “For you, that’s Octavia. For me, it was my dad.”

He smiles, pushes a paper clip through his latest crane. “I just like presents,” he says. “Next year we’ll figure something out.”

Clarke feels a warm flush of affection for him. Of course they’ll be together in a year, and of course he’ll make sure she has somewhere to go for Christmas. He doesn’t know how to not look after people.

“Has that girl texted you yet?” she asks.

“She told me she got home okay,” he says, grudging. And then, even more grudging, “And thanked me for worrying. With a heart emoji.”

Clarke cackles. “Of course she fucking did.”

He throws a ball of origami paper at her. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Tidings of comfort and joy, Bellamy! It’s Christmas.”

“It’s December 23rd,” he says. “And I hate you.”

*

The snow is hard and heavy on Christmas Eve; Clarke was supposed to be working half a day, but her boss tells her to just take the day and stay safe. Bellamy’s already off, of course, since he should have flown out this morning, and their power stays on, so he spends the morning playing Skyrim while Clarke half-watches and sketches. It’s a pretty standard day off for them, but it still feels like getting away with something, spending a work day with him with no plans and no responsibilities.

She hasn’t had a real snow day, not in a long time.

While she’s in the shower, presents appear under the tree.

“Isn’t that supposed to happen overnight?” she asks. Bellamy is back on the floor, fighting some bandits like he never moved.

“What?”

“If you’re trying to make it look like Santa showed up and left presents, you should have waited until tonight while I was asleep. That’s what my parents did.”

“My mom never did the whole Santa thing.”

“I bet you did,” she says, sitting down on the floor next to him. He’s six years older than his sister; he would have been old enough to do that for her.

“For a few years,” he says, gruff, and Clarke leans her head against his shoulder.

“How many presents did you get me?”

“Three. But they’re cheap, so don’t worry about it. And I already know I’m better at Christmas than you are. So you don’t have to stress out.”

“I got you two presents. And I’m rich, so you know they’re really nice.”

He snorts. “Yeah, sure they are. I remember last year. I don’t expect much.”

“Shut up! That was a good present!”

“You got me  _towels_.”

“They were nice towels! You needed towels!”

He presses his lips to her hair. “No one wants towels for Christmas, Clarke. No one in the history of the world.”

“Has that girl texted you again?”

“I just didn’t respond.”

“She was cute.”

“She was like nineteen. But I’ve got her number, if you want it.”

Clarke hasn’t gotten anyone’s number in a good six months, and she hasn’t had any desire to. She likes sex, of course, but it just hasn’t felt pressing, recently. She hasn’t met anyone to spark her interest.

“No, no,” she says, smiling. “She’s all yours.”

*

At three, he announces that they’re making cookies.

“Cookies?”

“It’s traditional.”

“Are the cookies for Santa?”

“They’re for us. Come on, don’t pretend you don’t want cookies. I make awesome cookies.”

“What kind?”

“Sugar. With special frosting.”

She grins and bumps her shoulder against his. “I take it back. I definitely should have gone for Christmas with you.”

“You should have. Like I said, next year.”

“Okay, well–tell me what to do.”

It’s easily her best Christmas Eve in recent memory. Last year, with her mom and Marcus, it had been awkward, and she’d spent most of her time in her childhood bedroom, chatting with Bellamy on Facebook and asking him to rescue her. They’d only been roommates for three months, but they’d worked out the kinks by then, and he’s always good for some  _what the hell, rich people_  chatting. And the year before that, it had been just as awkward without as easy a solution. Every year since her dad died, really.

Once the cookie dough is in the fridge to cool, Bellamy goes to shower himself, and Clarke grabs his presents–a new 3DS, because his old one broke and he hasn’t been able to replace it, and a dishtowel, because that’s going to be a thing now–and puts them under the tree.

There are more that three presents under the tree, and it makes Clarke smile. Bellamy’s wrapping skills are sub-par at best, but when she checks the first tag, she sees he’s written  _To O, Love Santa_  in his distinctive, messy scrawl. Of course he put his sister’s presents out too, and of course they’re still from Santa.

She finds hers, and she has one from Bellamy, one from Santa, and one from Yoshitaka Amano, who is, as she recalls, a Japanese artist who does illustrations for the Final Fantasy series, because Bellamy likes coming up with thematic givers for gifts. It’s probably art supplies.

It’s like a switch in her head, like a light coming on, that easy and mundane, except that she can’t move, suddenly. Her mind is racing in the most organized way, cataloging every smile, every brush of their shoulders, every time she said she was busy so she could hang out at home with him, every person she didn’t go home with because she just wasn’t in the mood.

“Snooping?” he asks, finally jarring her from her thoughts, and she turns and sees him, as if for the first time. Damp curly hair, freckles, broad shoulders, dorky t-shirt. He’s wearing his glasses.

“Oh fuck, I’m in love with you,” she says, miserable.

Bellamy blinks at her a few times. “What?”

“Sorry, it’s shitty timing. I’d leave but, you know. Snow.”

He comes over and sits down next to her. “Why would you leave?”

She rubs the back of her neck. “I made it weird.”

He licks his lips, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “You mean it?”

“Sorry.”

The sound he lets out is more breath than laugh. “Why?”

“You’re the best roommate I’ve ever had. I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“Neither do I, but, seriously, Clarke. Come on.” He leans in, but pauses. “I’d rather have an awesome girlfriend than an awesome roommate. If girlfriend is on the table.”

It’s been a very overwhelming ten minutes. Still, Clarke manages, “Since when?”

“July. You threw me a surprise Bastille Day party.”

“Jesus. Say something next time.”

“Not all of us can just realize we’re in love with our best friends and just blurt it out,” he teases, sliding his hand against her jaw, tilting her face up.

“Your loss. My way was so efficient,” she says, and he’s laughing when he kisses her.

*

There’s even more snow when she wakes up. Bellamy’s arms around are her, his nose against her neck.

“I don’t think we’re getting out of the apartment anytime soon.”

“Good,” he says, tugging her more snug against him. “I don’t want to go anywhere anyway.”

He kisses her jaw and down her neck, hand sliding up her leg, and Clarke can think of much worse ways to spend the holidays.


	16. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Can you do an au for bellarke based on The Proposal where Clarke is Margaret and Bellamy is Andrew and Everything is perfect?
> 
> For [officialcatheronie](http://officialcatheronie.tumblr.com/)!

“I  _knew it_!” Octavia says.

Bellamy manages to open one eye, but just barely. It’s been a long day, and he finally has a moment away from his  _fiancee_ , and all he wants to do is not move or think or interact with the world.

Fuck, his life has gotten weird.

“Knew what?” he asks.

“All that complaining about your boss. As soon as I saw a picture of her, I knew it was a cover for how much you liked her.”

He really, really wants to deny it. Because he does hate Clarke. He does. She’s a rich know-it-all who just got her job because of her dad.

Or, okay. She’s a smart, capable woman who could have gotten her job on her own merits. She didn’t, but it’s not actually her fault that she has family connections, and she’s doing her best to deserve what she gets.

It’s not like he’s really in love with her or anything, but–she’s not as bad as he thought at first. Still, he hates having to act like his sister is  _right_ , like all his hatred for Clarke has been a cover for his desire to make out with her. Just because she’s not awful, it doesn’t mean he was in denial about her. He can think she’s okay as a person without actually  _liking_  her.

But they’re getting married and he has to be convincing about it, so he just closes his eyes again and flips his sister off. “Shut up, O.”

*

When he gets up to his room– _their_  room–Clarke is in bed, wearing more than he thinks she wears to work most days, a proper two-piece pajama set, and looking awkward as she does something on her laptop.

“Did she buy it?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling off his shirt and kicking off his jeans. Clarke can sleep in clothes if she wants; he’s going to be comfortable. “Apparently I’ve been working the sexual-tension-as-hatred angle for years without even knowing it.”

“Good foresight.” She sets the laptop aside and lies back, careful, staring up at the ceiling like it’s the only safe thing in the room. “This wasn’t how I pictured your family.”

The most surprising part of the statement is that she’s thought about his family at all. Bellamy assumed that once he left Clarke’s direct line of sight, she forgot he existed. But maybe the fact that he was the one she chose for her green-card marriage should have been an indication it wasn’t true.

“Yeah?” he asks. “What did you think?”

“You seem like the kind of guy who’d have a huge family. Not just a sister.” She smiles a little, soft, an expression he’s never seen on her before. It’s possible Clarke Griffin is actually kind of nice, outside of work.

He’s not currently prepared to think about that.

“But it’s nice,” she adds. “I don’t have any siblings. It’s cool, how close you guys are.”

“Not right now,” he says, climbing into bed next to her. “Right now, she’s pissed I didn’t tell her I got engaged. But at least I got the week off.”

“You could take a week off without making it part of a fake marriage agreement,” she says, petulant, and he snorts.

“Yeah, there’s no way. Go to sleep, Clarke.”

*

After four days of non-work Clarke, Bellamy realizes he is on no level equipped to marry her, for all the wrong reasons. He shouldn’t want to marry Clarke because she’s his boss, his boss he doesn’t even  _like_. She’s short-tempered and occasionally ruthless, and her desire to prove herself is honestly awesome, but it’s also a lot to have to deal with.

Outside of work, when she actually relaxes, she’s just as smart and motivated, but she’s also a little shy, awkward with strangers, and she sticks next to him, watching him with adoration in her eyes that he knows is faked, but–god, he doesn’t want it to be.

The problem with marrying Clarke is it sounds less and less like hell on earth and more and more like something he could live with. He’s not ready to marry her because it’s a business arrangement for her, and that’s not how he wants to marry her.

Octavia better not have been fucking  _right_.

“I met your ex-girlfriend,” she remarks, the night before O’s birthday party.

“Which one?”

“Roma?”

“Girlfriend is a strong word.”

“She said the same thing.” She’s given up on the pajama suit and switched to just a tank top and shorts, which is also not helping him remember why he doesn’t want to marry her. He  _always_  knew her legs were amazing, but it’s different when they’re amazing in bed with him. “She said she was shocked you were settling down.”

“Huh.”

Clarke worries her lip. “Do you know why I asked you to do this?”

Bellamy feels a lump rise in his throat. “I assumed I was the easiest to blackmail.”

Earlier this week, he thinks the shot might have landed. Now Clarke just smiles and shoves his shoulder, like they’re friends. It’s the worst. “I thought you were–I figured everyone would believe it.”

“Because we’re so close.”

“Shut up, dick.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I just–” She sighs. “I had this stupid picture of you in my head as the guy who’d always had a big family and lots of people who loved you and I wanted that. And now I find out you’re somehow even  _better_ , taking care of your baby sister, giving up years of your life, and it’s so stupidly unfair that you  _don’t_  have someone in your life, someone you really want to marry. You should be so happy and I hate that I’m just making you less and happy.”

Bellamy pauses, opens and closes his mouth a few times, and then finally laughs. Clarke does glare at that, and he smiles wider. “You couldn’t have just asked me out?”

Her embarrassed flush is the best thing he’s ever seen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You wanted to marry me,” he says. “Most people start with dating.”

She rubs her face. “I didn’t say that.”

“You kind of did.” He takes her hand, marvels at the softness of her fingers. At the fact that he wants this, and she does too. “I’ve got someone in my life,” he tells her.

A smile is growing on her face. “Your sister?”

He snorts. “Definitely not,” he says, ducks his head down so he can kiss her, and she lets him, melts under him, throws her arms around his neck and kisses back, and it’s everything he’s never let himself want.

“We’ve probably got time for a couple dates before the wedding,” he says, only barely pulling away. “We have to make it convincing, right?”

“Thank goodness I’m giving you a promotion so you’re not reporting to me,” she says, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Or this would be really unethical.”

“Yeah. Shining beacon of ethics, that’s you,” he teases.

“Seriously, shut up,” she says, and he does.

*

By the time they’re getting married, absolutely no one has any doubt that they mean it. In fact, the most frequent question he gets is what took so long.

“Ethical concerns,” he tells the immigration officer, straight-faced. “And she’s an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Clarke says. She squeezes his hand, gives a long and fairly insightful speech about being a young woman in a competitive field and how difficult it can be to be taken seriously if you have any kind of personal life, and he watches her the whole time with what must be a ridiculous look on his face.

“But fucking your assistant,” he adds, grinning, once she’s done. “That’s exactly what a male executive would do. So–”

“God, shut up, I don’t even want to marry you anymore.”

“Too late, already did.” The immigration guy clears his throat, and Bellamy offers him a smile too. “Sorry. Any other concerns?”

“No, I believe that’s it. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he says. The ring on his finger still feels like a miracle. “I really appreciate it.”


	17. The Breakfast Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke 'The Breakfast Club' AU with Clarke as Claire and Bellamy as John Bender, and whomever else you see fit as being the rest of the cast.
> 
> For [foxydangerfluff](http://foxydangerfluff.tumblr.com/)!

The thing is, it’s easy to be friends with someone for a day. Even someone you think you have nothing in common with. The trick is maintaining an actual relationship, and that’s what’s worrying Clarke. She  _liked_  hanging out with Monty, Raven, and Miller. And she sees Miller fairly regularly, but just because they run in the same broad, popular-kid circles. It’s not  _real_.

Clarke maybe doesn’t have a lot of people to actually talk to, and she doesn’t want to lose the connections she made.

And then there’s Bellamy, who’s always been this mysterious delinquent, some guy she avoids eye contact with in the halls, and now suddenly he’s–

She really, really doesn’t want to lose Bellamy.

The Monday after their detention, she finds Raven (they’re in the same math class) and Monty (biology) and eats lunch with them and Miller without any trouble, but there’s no sign of Bellamy. 

On Tuesday, she takes matters into her own hands and finds his sister before school instead of waiting for him to naturally occur in her life.

“Hi, can I ask you a question?”

Octavia Blake is four years younger than they are, a freshman, around Clarke’s height, dark-haired and pretty. Her eyes aren’t as hard as her brother’s, and Clarke knows now that it’s because he takes the blows that her father tries to land on her. 

“What do you want, princess?” she asks, sounding just like Bellamy.

“I’m looking for your brother.”

It seems to actually alarm Octavia. “Why?”

“I want to talk to him.” She looks unconvinced, and Clarke sighs. “We had detention together on Saturday.”

It’s not much of an explanation, but Octavia inclines her head and says, “He’s in the stupid auto shop. He’s  _always_  in the stupid auto shop.”

“Thanks,” says Clarke. “I appreciate it.”

Part of her wants to dismiss the entire day as nothing. Sometimes, the planets align, and people come together. But it hadn’t felt like that. Once the sniping and the lashing out stopped and they started talking, she thought they’d made genuine connections. And Bellamy had told her it might just be a day, that it wouldn’t last.

Fuck that. She’s going to make it last.

She sees a pair of legs sticking out from under a car and one tan, freckled arm rooting through a toolbox when she gets to the shop, so she kneels and looks at the tools.

“Which one are you looking for?”

He starts, swears, and slides out from under the car, glaring. There’s a black splotch on his cheek and Clarke’s mouth goes a little dry at the sight of him. 

She still wants him in her life. She still wants  _him_.

“Hi,” she says.

“You know the bell rang, right? If you cut class, you’re going to get detention again.”

“I’d say you’re worth it, but I have a free period. And it’s like two days before Christmas break, no one cares.”

“No one cares if you cut,” he says, sitting up and crossing his arms over his chest. “Plenty of us still get in trouble if we don’t go to class. What do you want?”

“I wanted to see you, obviously. And you didn’t make it easy,” she can’t help adding.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, gruff. “You act like it’s weird that we haven’t seen each other for two days. We don’t exactly run in the same circles.”

“Okay. But–” She huffs, and he finally cracks and smiles. “Shut up. I had to ask your sister where you were. Do you want to have lunch? Miller and Raven and Monty are in.”

“Yeah, I usually work through lunch,” he admits. When he looks at her through his lashes, she feels her heart speed up. “Seriously, what are you doing here, Clarke?”

“I don’t want everything to just go back to how it was. I don’t want Saturday to have meant nothing. I  _like you_ , dumbass. I want to be–”

He’s in her space, suddenly, so close she can feel the heat of him. “You want to freak your parents out with your delinquent boyfriend?” he asks, but Clarke can see the hope lurking in his eyes.

“I was thinking we’d start with being friends,” she says, voice light. “I don’t want to not see you for the whole break, so we had better be friends.”

Bellamy pauses. “Friends,” he repeats.

“To start.” She takes his hand, though, can’t help it. “We could do Christmas shopping or something.”

He snorts. “I did tell you how Christmas usually goes at my house.”

“But you’re gonna get something for your sister.”

“I am.” He looks at her. “You know what’s going to happen if you start hanging out with me, right?”

“Ideally I lose my virginity,” she says, and he lets out a shocked bark of laughter. “I’m not very attached to it.”

“Okay,” he says, biting back on a smile. “I’ll give you my number.”

“Cool,” she says. “What are you doing with the car?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Thinking about picking up shop, princess?”

“Friends share interests, right?”

“Then give me the wrench and I’ll walk you through it.”

At lunch, she grabs two trays and says, “I’m going to hang out with Bellamy, are you guys coming?”

Miller and Monty exchange a look; they’re totally dating, and it’s totally cute. “Where is he?” Monty asks.

“Auto shop. He’s going to trade school when he graduates, he’s hoping to finish early if he’s good enough with cars.”

“Uh,” says Miller. “Where did you hear this?”

“He told me. This morning.” She squares her jaw. “What, you guys all want to hang out without him?”

“No way,” says Raven, and Monty grins. The tension leaves Clarke all at once, and she smiles too. “I love the auto shop. I would have been hanging out there already if I knew you guys would come.”

Bellamy’s reading when they show up, and Clarke sits down next to him on the table and puts the tray in his lap. “You could read in the lunch room,” she remarks.

“Jesus, you brought a fucking army,” he says, but he smiles. “She talked you guys into this too, huh?”

“Not everything is about you, Blake,” Raven says. “If Mr. Harper wasn’t such a fucking misogynist I’d hang out in here all the time.”

“Just pretend you’re dating Bellamy,” Clarke says. “And then if he asks, you can say you’re hanging out with your boyfriend when you’re really fixing cars.”

“How many girlfriends do I have in this scenario?” Bellamy asks. He pokes at the lunch she brought him. “I really only want one. No offense, Raven.”

“Yeah, I’m taken, thanks. But I appreciate Clarke’s desire for a threesome. I’d want one too, if I were her.”

“Worth a shot,” Clarke says, cheerful, and changes the subject smoothly, drawing Bellamy into Monty and Miller’s conversation about video games. It feels like success. Like they can do this.

Wednesday is a half day, and she goes to the autoshop to get Bellamy.

“Seriously, you want to see me every day?” he asks, but he’s grinning. “You’re kind of clingy, you know that?”

“We’re going Christmas shopping.” She bumps her shoulder against his. “Besides, I don’t just want to see you when I have detention. I’m not that good at getting in trouble.”

“Trust me, you’re plenty of trouble.” He considers, and then adds, “Has anyone ever told you that you can’t always get everything you want?”

“I know I can’t get  _everything_  I want,” she says. “But I can get you, right?”

He doesn’t look convinced, not really. But he doesn’t have to be yet. It takes more than a day to win some people over, but Clarke knows where to find him, and she’s got his number. She can figure it out.

“You can get me,” he agrees, with a small smile, and he might not believe it, but he will. 

She’ll show him.


	18. Must Love Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke : I'm at the dog park and I like to make up breeds when people ask what kind of dog I have (venetian dabney, brown feta, high Presbyterian, Filius Canis -which is Latin for son of a bitch, etc.) and you're on to me.
> 
> For [t0rithebull](http://t0rithebull.tumblr.com/)!

The rational part of Bellamy knows that people who ask what kind of dog he has are not being assholes. It’s a very common question. But he feels sort of offended on Scylla’s behalf. Who cares if she’s a mutt? She’s the best dog ever. It doesn’t matter what specific breeds she’s made up of. 

He might also be projecting a little. He gets too many questions about his own ethnic makeup to not bristle when people ask. He knows it’s not the same thing, knows that’s not what anyone means, but still. Every time he goes to the dog park, at least one person asks what kind of dog she is, and even if they sound impressed, it still rankles him.

So he came up with a system.

“What a beautiful dog,” a girl with a tiny, yappy terrier says. “He has such a beautiful pattern on his fur. What kind is he?”

She’s the third person today to ask, and Bellamy isn’t running out of smart-ass responses, but that’s just because he likes to sit around coming up with fake dog breeds in his spare time. It’s fun.

“She’s a Throat Warbler Mangrove,” he says, straight-faced. “Very rare. Excellent plumage.”

“Wow. I’ve never seen even heard of that. Where did you get her?”

“eBay.”

She frowns at that. “You can’t get dogs on eBay, can you?”

“Oh, yeah, you can get anything on eBay.”

He hears someone snort and turns to see a blonde girl sitting on a bench with a sketchbook. She doesn’t seem to be paying attention to them, but she’s the only one around, and she’s been here for a while, now that he thinks about it. She looks vaguely familiar. 

“Uh,” he says, forcing his attention back to the girl he was talking to with effort. “Your dog is cool too,” he tells her, without much conviction. He’s the worst at small talk.

“Thanks. We’re here most Saturdays. All afternoon.”

“Cool.”

Apparently it’s the wrong answer, because she smiles weakly and waves. Which–thank god. Bellamy doesn’t know why people always want to be social at the dog park. He’s here because his yard isn’t really large enough to play fetch with Scylla, not to make friends. He’d rather just interact with the dogs, honestly.

“I can’t tell if you’re not interested or just inept,” the blonde remarks, startling him.

“What?”

“Don’t get me wrong, the weird dog breed names are cute. I’m a sucker for a gratuitous Monty Python reference. But I wish that many hot girls tried to pick me up when I was at the dog park. Or ever.”

Bellamy frowns. “Wait, what?”

“Okay, so, inept. Or oblivious. I’m not sure if those should be counted separately. But, yeah, basically? Cute girls are trying to dog-flirt with you and you’re making up dog breeds and grunting until they leave you alone.”

He sits down next to her on the bench, somewhat stunned. “Shit. That is actually what’s happening, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” she says, popping her p. Scylla runs back over to them with her tennis ball, and the blonde leans down. “Is she friendly, or should I not touch her?”

“Let her smell you first,” says Bellamy. “But she’s usually fine with people, as long as there aren’t too many.”

The blonde extends her hand and lets Scylla sniff her and then lick her fingers, making the girl laugh. “Good girl. What’s her name?”

“Scylla.”

“Like the–water monster?”

“Some depictions have her with dog heads around her waist,” he says, shrugging.

“Hot. That explains the classics-themed fake dog breeds. I assume she’s a basic mutt?”

“She’s an  _awesome_  mutt,” he says, but he can’t help smiling.

“She really is gorgeous. Good girl. People are probably asking because they want a dog this cool.”

“Sucks for them, she’s all mine.” He frowns. “Speaking of which, where’s your dog?”

“I don’t have one. My roommate is allergic. But I live right around the corner, so I come here to sketch and pretend I have a pet of my own.”

“Kind of creepy,” he remarks, getting Scylla’s tennis ball and throwing it for her. “But I guess if I didn’t have a dog I’d be pretty sad.”

“My life is empty,” she agrees. 

“What are you drawing?”

She grins and shows him her notebook, which is covered in sketches of his dog, and then a small cartoon of him in the corner, with a speech bubble reading  _Throat Warbler Mangrove_.

“Cute or creepy?” she asks. “I just thought it was funny. And Scylla’s great to draw. I do illustrations for children’s books, so drawing dogs is actually relevant to my work,” she adds, before he can reply. “If that affects how creepy you think it is.”

“You’re really good. She looks awesome.”

“Well, she’s a very cool dog.”

“Thanks.” The dog in question runs back up and gives the ball to the blonde, who throws it for her. “So you come here often?”

He doesn’t realize how terrible it sounds until the blonde cracks up. “Wow. You’re  _so_  inept.”

“Not all of us think of the dog park as a place to pick people up,” he grumbles. “I’m totally competent at bars.”

“So, you are trying to pick me up,” she says, tucking her hair back behind her ear. “Or are you just saying that if you were trying to pick me up, you’d be better at it?”

“Both,” he decides. “I mean, uh, I wasn’t actively trying, but I probably should be?”

“Ringing endorsement.”

“I’m still catching up. Again, I don’t think of the dog park as somewhere to pick people up.”

“Which works out well for me. One of those other girls totally would have picked you up before you noticed me.”

“Probably because you were just sitting on the bench, drawing me and my dog, like a weird stalker.”

She grins. “But you still want to pick me up, so–yes, I come here often. Tuesday and Saturday afternoons, usually. Since I work from home I need to come up with reasons to leave the house.” She grins. “I know, I’m just sounding cooler and cooler. Try not to get overwhelmed.”

“Doing my best.” He offers his hand. “I’m Bellamy. I like making up weird fake dog breeds and not noticing people are hitting on me.”

“Clarke. I’m bisexual and like drawing hot people and cute animals.”

“Cool. Are you free for dinner?”

It turns out hanging out with his girlfriend at the dog park drastically reduces the number of people who ask him what breed his dog is. When he tells Clarke, she laughs and says, “I knew you kept me around for something.”

“Yeah, that’s basically the only reason,” he agrees. “But I do have all these fake dog breeds I never get to use anymore.”

“Sucks to be you,” she says, cheerful, but she starts asking him for Scylla’s every time she sees him, just so he has an excuse to use all the names he came up with, and, yeah.

He’s keeping her around forever.


	19. United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In the spirit of holidays, how about Bellarke (because what else?) and Unity Day?
> 
> For [madjm](http://madjm.tumblr.com/)!

Their second Unity Day on Earth, Clarke realizes Bellamy is actually  _avoiding_  happiness. Or at least avoiding celebration. He was the first year too, but he’d been cheerful about it. And he’d been recovering from drug-induced trauma. She hadn’t thought it was a big deal at the time. She barely knew him.

But the second year, Clarke is expecting him to loosen up a little. They’re in fairly good shape, these days. They aren’t at war with anyone. They’re secure. They’re together, and they’re a team, and Clarke thinks he likes that as much as she does.

Honestly, she’d been pretty excited about getting a chance to relax with him. They’ve both had enough gloom and doom in the last year. Unity Day seemed like a good excuse for them to enjoy themselves. A good excuse to get drunk and be stupid.

But Bellamy is nowhere to be found when the festivities start, and after two drinks, she  _still_  can’t find him. She checks all the guard posts and finds no sign of him, asks Miller and Raven, who don’t know, and finally Octavia, who is the last holdout in fully forgiving Clarke for everything that happened after Mount Weather.

“Did you check his cabin?” Octavia asks, with a roll of her eyes.

“It seemed too obvious.”

Octavia considers Clarke, really considers her, like she’s looking at the last year of pain and struggle and change and weighing it all. “He probably wants you to find him,” she finally says. “He always wants you to find him.” A smile breaks out on her face, and Clarke returns it. “He’s such a drama queen, seriously. He can’t just say what he wants, he makes you work for it.”

“Sounds like Bellamy. I’ll check his cabin.”

“Tell him I want him to have one drink with me!” Octavia calls as she leaves. “He can go back to being a dumbass after that.”

Clarke waves. “I’ll pass that along.”

Bellamy’s cabin was one of the last ones built, because he wanted everyone else to get one first. It probably worked out pretty well for him; they’d gotten the hang of construction by the time they made his place. It’s nicer than a lot of the others.

She doesn’t bother knocking, just pushes the door open, and he’s there, of course, stretched out on his bed, reading one of the five books he’s traded for. It’s Unity Day, there is an actual party outside, and he’s sitting alone in his cabin, reading.

“Wow,” she says.

“Hey, everything okay?” he asks, sitting up. He’s wearing a t-shirt and light, linen pants, ones he made himself. Like he’s going to  _sleep_.

“You know you’re only twenty-four, right? We had a party. Octavia made you wear that dorky hat.”

“And?”

“And we’re having another party now and you’re skipping it to read and sleep. Come on, Unity Day. You deserve to have some fun.”

He gives her a wry smile. “Cute. Maybe books are fun for me.”

“I know they are, but–we miss you. I was going to make you play drinking games with me. What happened to the Bellamy who had threesomes and wandered around camp shirtless?”

He sighs and pats the bunk next to him; Clarke goes and stretches out. His cabin is spartan, no comfortable furniture aside from the bed, which she uses as an excuse to not sit in his chairs. He’s gotten used to it. “That Bellamy was a dick, for one,” he says. “And Unity Day isn’t really my favorite.”

“You seemed fine with it last year.”

He puts a marker in his book and looks at her. “The last time I tried to have fun on Unity Day, I ruined my entire family.” When she frowns, he adds, “It’s when O got caught. I thought if she was wearing a mask–”

Clarke knew the story, of course. She’d heard her mother talking about it. Octavia had been at the ball, she’d been found. She went to the Skybox, her mother was floated, her brother was kicked out of the guard. But it’s so hard to connect Bellamy and Octavia, these real people, her  _friends_ , to that story.

“Last year was nice,” he admits. “I felt like I was doing something right again.”

She pauses, but she has to say it. “You know, if Octavia hadn’t been caught, you’d both be dead.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You were in factory station, right? She wouldn’t have been sent down here. You wouldn’t have come. Your mom would have gotten another year or two, but–you guys would have died when the Ark came down. You didn’t ruin your family, Bellamy. You saved them. Accidentally, but–” She swallows hard, because it’s actually almost unthinkable, the life where she never met him. Where he’d died on the Ark and she never knew he existed. “I know it was awful, but I’m really glad it happened.”

He’s staring at her, and it probably never occurred to him. “Yeah, but–” he manages, and shakes his head. “I don’t think I can take credit for that.”

“I’m giving you credit. You get credit. Poof. Credit.”

He laughs and leans his head against hers. “Thanks. I still don’t want to go out and have Unity Day fun, though.”

“You know what I wanted to do for Unity Day fun?”

“Drinking games and moonshine,” he says. “Which it smells like you did, so good job.”

“Two drinks,” she says. “I thought you were just running late.”

“I’m bad at drinking games.”

“I wanted to spend time with  _you_ , Bellamy. I was killing time waiting for you to show up. It’s Unity Day. I was going to make you dance with me and laugh and be  _happy_.”

“I am happy,” he says. “You don’t have to–”

“I was going to take you home with me,” she says, before her courage fails her. “I had this whole  _plan_ , Bellamy.”

He tenses, but he doesn’t move away. It can’t be a surprise, not a total one. She feels like they’ve been on the edge of something for months, and she’s tired of not tipping one direction or the other.

“I’m already home,” he says, shifting closer to her, putting the book on the floor. “You weren’t really that attached to taking me back to your place, were you? Mine’s just as good.” He’s smiling, grinning even, and Clarke leans in.

“Your cabin is nicer than mine,” she says. “I would have gone home with you too.”

“Good.” He tugs her into his lap and she leans in to catch his mouth with hers, stomach swooping with happiness as he slides his hand up her jaw and kisses back, instant, all-consuming. “Hooking up on Unity Day? Kind of a cliche.”

“I would have done it last year,” she says. “If you’d been having fun last year.”

He grins. “I would have too.” He kisses her again, long and slow, shifting his hands down her body to ruck up her shirt. “I’ll do it next year, too.”

“If you make me wait a whole year to do this again I swear to God, Bellamy–”

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, tugging her shirt off. “I think we waited long enough.”

Next year, he comes out with her right away, takes a shot of moonshine and leaves his arm around her waist the whole time. 

“Feeling better about Unity Day?” she asks, laughing as he nuzzles her neck, tipsy and affectionate.

“I think you had a point,” he says. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”


	20. gather near to us once more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: AU Clarke gets sick right before Christmas and can't make it home to be with her mom. She doesn't tell her friends she's stuck on campus bc she doesn't want to ruin anyones holiday. But our bb Bellamy goes to her dorm to drop off a surprise gift and finds a helpless pathetic Clarke lump inside. Bickering and caretaking and celebrating shenanigans ensue
> 
> For [esbee-daisy](http://esbee-daisy.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy knows it’s sad to drop off a present for Clarke when she can’t get it. But, well, he’s an RA, so he’s probably not supposed to give a present to just one person in the dorm. It’s favoritism or something. Which, to be fair, it kind of is, but it’s not his fault they were already friends when she ended up in his hall.

Also he has a massive crush on her, but that’s kind of a separate issue.

His plan is to use his master key, drop off the gift, and leave, and by the time she gets back, he won’t feel weird about it. 

He knows he hasn’t really thought the plan through, but it doesn’t sink in exactly how much he hadn’t thought it through until he opens the door and finds the light on and a lump in Clarke’s bed.

“If you’re going to kill me, do it before I sneeze again,” she rasps.

“Jesus, Clarke, you sound like fucking death.”

She startles and rolls over, squinting at him. Her hair is a disaster and she looks awful. “Bellamy?”

“Who else has a key?”

“Is that a present?”

“What are you doing? I thought you left yesterday.”

“So you broke into my room?”

“Again, I have a key.” He looks at the package in his hand, which is even more embarrassing now. The whole point of dropping it off when she wasn’t around was that she wouldn’t be around, and he wouldn’t have to explain himself. “I forgot to give you this before you left so I figured I’d just drop it off for you when you got back. But, again, you’re still here.”

She coughs, this horrific sound that makes him wince in sympathy. “I’m too sick to drive,” she admits. “I’ll probably be better in time to make it for New Year’s.”

“Fuck, seriously?” He rubs his face. “And you weren’t even going to mention this to anyone?”

“What was I supposed to say?” she asks. “I’m not going home. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m not going home either,” he points out. “So you should have told me so I could help. Do you have medicine? Orange juice? Soup?”

“I’m nineteen, Bellamy, I can take care of myself.”

“So that’s a no.”

“I have cranberry juice,” she says. “That has vitamin C.”

“Did you have tea?”

She rubs her face, looking shifty. “I microwaved some water and drank that.”

“Fuck, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Clearly you have never listened to that Sarah McLachlan song that plays during the ASPCA commercials,” she mutters.

“What kind of soup do you like?”

“Bellamy.”

“What? I have a car, I’m not doing anything, and you look like fucking death.”

“Thanks. Just what everyone wants to hear.”

“The sooner you let me buy you soup, the sooner you’ll be cute again.”

She snorts. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

“Seriously, what do you need? I have to go to the store anyway.”

There’s another pause, and then she fumbles for her bedside table. “I’ll give you a list. My wallet is in the jeans on my desk chair, take forty bucks.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says. “Do you have a fever?”

“Not a bad one.”

He groans. “Do you have the fucking  _flu_?”

“Shut up. It’s just a virus. Get me some tylenol to keep the fever down and some cough syrup. And–”

“Just put it on the list, remember? That’s how lists work. And get some sleep while I’m gone.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She looks away, embarrassed. “But, um–really. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Should have just called me,” he says, gruff. “Don’t die while I’m gone.”

*

Her shopping list is pretty minimal, of course. Clarke is shitty at letting people take care of her. Luckily, Bellamy is pretty great at taking care of people whether they want him to or not, so he’s pretty sure he’s got this one. And he is sticking around the dorm and planning to do most of his own cooking, since only one dining hall is open, so he just picks up some extra supplies so he can cook for Clarke too.

Then he gets a fake tree and some ornaments and some fucking lights because it’s  _Christmas_  and Clarke is sick and he’s not going to let her sit alone in her undecorated dorm room. He has standards.

“Aren’t you a little tall to be a Christmas elf?” she asks, when he starts setting it up. She’s sitting on her her futon with a blanket around her shoulders, drinking the tea he made her, trying and failing to maintain a scowl.

“How many Christmas elves have you met?” he asks. “How do you know how tall we are? That’s stereotyping, Clarke.”

She laughs and struggles to her feet. “You really didn’t have to do this, though.”

“I’m here anyway. And you know me, I’m happier if I have someone to worry about.”

“I do know that. Why aren’t you home? You have the sister, right?”

“I do have a sister,” he agrees. “She’s spending Christmas with her dad and his new wife. At his new wife parents’ place. She’s coming to crash on my couch for New Year’s, though, so I still get to see her. And I save money not having to go anywhere. It sucks you’re stuck, though.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I love my mom, but–spending a little less time with her isn’t the worst thing. We always run out of things to talk about in about thirty-six hours and then it turns into her critiquing all my life choices. It sucks that I’ll miss actual Christmas, but we’ll celebrate a little later.” She smiles. “And I do have a tree now.”

“And a present under it.”

“You know you didn’t have to get me anything, right?”

“I know. I just like getting presents.”

She shuffles over to her dresser and pulls out a gift. “Well, you can put this one under there too.”

“For your mom?”

“No, for you, duh.”

He gives her a smile. “You got me something?”

“We are friends, right?” she asks. It’s hard to tell if she’s blushing, given she’s sick and gross, but he’s hoping. “Shut up and give me some ornaments.”

*

By Christmas Eve, Clarke is mostly just grumpy that she’s not feeling all the way better. She and Bellamy have spent most of the break on the common room couch watching Netflix or playing whichever video games they can find, primarily some weird soccer game of Miller’s that neither of them really understands. Clarke mostly wins, but they can’t actually figure out  _why_. It’s a total mystery.

They have a pretty decent dinner and play cards for a while, and then Clarke’s mom calls, so they part ways for the night. Bellamy calls Octavia and listens to her complain about her step-cousins, who are apparently all shitheads, and tells her he loves her and wishes her a Merry Christmas. 

He misses his sister, but he can’t actually complain about how this holiday is turning out for him. Clarke has been getting closer and closer when they sit on the couch, and he thinks if he asks her out after break, she’ll probably say yes.

It’s just after midnight when there’s a knock on his door, and when he opens the door, Clarke has brought the tree and both presents. “Hi. Merry Christmas.”

“You aren’t giving Santa any time to bring you more stuff,” he says, stepping out of the way to let her in. “Your present isn’t that good, it can definitely wait until tomorrow.”

“You’ve just–you’ve been really great,” Clarke says. “The last few days. I was planning to just be alone and sick and miserable and send texts about how sad I was once everyone was too far away to feel guilty and come back to check on me. And I was going to try to avoid you because I didn’t want you to feel obligated to hang out with me, but–”

“Hey,” he says, gentle. “I had fun too, okay? You don’t need to give me a whole speech about it. I like you, I’m really glad you’re here. We don’t get to hang out enough.”

Clarke huffs, puts the tree down on his desk, and shoves her present at him. “Just open it, okay?”

Bellamy frowns, tugs the ribbon on the gift until the knot comes loose and unwraps it carefully, years of saving wrapping paper for next year coming back to him in spite of himself. “It’s, uh–” He frowns. In the box is an iTunes gift card and a box of macaroni and cheese. “It’s great,” he manages. “Just what I wanted.”

Clarke smiles a little. “It’s, uh–kind of symbolic. It seemed really cute when I was drunk. Dinner and a movie.”

“Dinner and a movie?”

“Yeah. Like a date. I chickened out on giving it to you, but then–I had such a good time this weekend, and you seemed, well–” She smiles, shrugs a little helplessly. “It’s still cute when you’re sober, right?”

He puts the box of macaroni and the gift card next to the tree on his desk, takes his present for her out of her hands and sets it aside too. “Mine isn’t nearly that direct,” he says. “The whole  _please go out with me_  thing was entirely subtext.” She grins, and he grins back. “Are you contagious?”

“If I am, you’re already sick.”

“Are you too congested to want to make out?”

“Definitely not.” She grins. “I’m going to brag to Raven so hard that that worked.”

Bellamy leans in, brushes his lips against hers. “Don’t get too smug. Anything would have worked.”

They end up having the macaroni for lunch the next day, watching something on Netflix instead of something he bought on iTunes. But he has to admit that, as first dates go, it’s pretty much perfect.


	21. at a revel with some rebels on a hot night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fluffy Bellarke Hamilton AU!
> 
> For [whereveryougnome](http://whereveryougnome.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke meets Octavia Blake not long after Octavia arrives in New York, and the two become friends at once. Octavia is fiery and passionate, just like Clarke, and it’s a relief to have someone to talk about politics and revolution with, someone who doesn’t think she has nothing interesting to say because of her wealth or her gender or her fondness for pretty clothing. Her mother is clearly concerned that she’s spending so much time with someone lower class, someone whose parentage is unknown, whose only living relation is a brother in the army, who lives in a boarding house and has no place in society. But Clarke refuses to be dissuaded from the friendship, and her mother eventually has to give up. Octavia is Clarke’s companion, and that’s that. Octavia comes for dinner and joins Clarke at social events and listens to all her complaints, while returning her own.

Which is how they find themselves discussing suitors one winter’s night as they walk arm-in-arm toward her father’s ball .

“It feels so  _frivolous_  to be worrying about marriage prospects at a time like this,” she remarks. “We’re in the middle of a war. Surely it can’t be so pressing that I find a husband.”

“Bell says I need to find one in case he  _dies_ ,” Octavia says. “Obviously I understand why he’s worried, but I’m going to kill him myself if he doesn’t stop telling me how often his life is in danger. I already know, he doesn’t have to  _remind me_.”

Clarke hides her smile. She hasn’t met Octavia’s brother Bell, for all he’s stationed fairly close by, but she’s heard so much about him she feels like she knows him. Overprotective, overbearing, occasionally ridiculous, and Octavia loves him more than anything. It’s an odd thing for Clarke to think about; Octavia is probably the closest thing she has to a sibling of her own, and it makes her feel lonely, how much closer her friend is to her real brother.

“But if you kill him, you’ll definitely be destitute,” Clarke teases.

“Yes, and he’ll have no one to blame but himself.” She leans her head against Clarke’s shoulder. “Your father doesn’t really expect you to find a husband at one of these, does he?”

“Expect? No, I don’t think he does. But my mother does, and my father is definitely aware that I could.”

“And what are you looking for in a husband, Miss Griffin?”

She grins. “Oh, you know me. Someone who will challenge me, respect me, not care if I’m radical and overly combative, and who ideally will not be scandalized if I like looking at pretty ladies as much as I like looking at handsome gentlemen.”

Octavia laughs. “Well, that’s not so much to ask.”

“I didn’t think so. I’m sure this ball will be crawling with young men of that exact description. I just have to pick the most attractive one.”

“And what a terrible burden that will be.”

“I bear it so you don’t have to,” Clarke says. “If I find any good ones, I’ll be sure to pass them along.”

And she means it. For all she dismisses Bell’s concerns when Octavia voices them, she privately agrees with him. If something were to happen to her parents, Clarke could easily take care of herself with the funds that would come to her on her father’s death until she found a husband. And her parents are in no immediate danger. Octavia’s brother is at war, and if something happened to him, Clarke doesn’t know what would happen to her. She’d do her best to make sure her friend was taken care of, but a husband would be much, much safer.

So it shouldn’t surprise her when the first man who catches her eye is one she needs to cede to Octavia.

Clarke sees him first. Octavia is talking with Monroe and Harper while Clarke finds refreshments, and she spies the man across the room, smiling and chatting with her old friend Wells. It’s his eyes that catch her attention, warm and dark and sparkling with mischief, and Clarke finds herself walking over to them before she’s quite realized she’s doing it.

“Wells!” she says, and her delight is genuine. “I didn’t know you were back!”

“Not for long,” he says, his own smile bright. “I only just arrived tonight and I’ll be gone again in the morning. I wouldn’t have come at all, but I don’t think Bellamy here would have come if I hadn’t forced him.”

“I was going to,” says the man, apparently Bellamy. Clarke assumes it’s his surname, since most soldiers seem to prefer that form of address. “I was!” he adds, when Wells snorts.

“Not a fan of balls?” she asks him, with a smile.

“Jaha is overstating things,” says Bellamy. “I would have come.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you, if you just arrived. I’m surprised you’re not worn out from the trip.”

“No, I’m stationed here,” he says. “I had no excuse not to come.” He offers her a smile. “I don’t believe I got your–” And then he stops, and a grin breaks out on his face as he sees something over her shoulder. It’s quite a grin. Heart-stopping, even. But it’s not for her.

Clarke turns, follows his line of sight, and sees, to her horror, that he’s looking at Octavia. Of course he is. She had a good feeling about him, and he’s looking at Octavia. And Octavia is smiling back, an expression Clarke has never seen before on her face.

Octavia needs him more than she does.

“Would you like an introduction?” she asks him, putting on a smile.

He shakes himself. “Oh, shi–sorry,” he corrects, and his flush when he realizes what he nearly said in front of her is  _not_  endearing. He’s for Octavia. “I got distracted. I did want an introduction.”

“Not to me. I can introduce you to her.”

“Her?”

She jerks her head. “The girl you’re looking at. She’s a friend of mine. Come on.”

He cocks his head at her, like he’s expecting a trap, but when she just keeps on smiling, he shakes his head. “By all means.”

When Octavia sees they’re coming to her, she breaks out in the brightest grin Clarke has ever seen from her. They are absolutely going to get married, and Clarke is going to be very happy for them. “Octavia Blake, may I present–” She pauses, realizing she doesn’t know his full name, and the officer leans over her shoulder.

“Bellamy Blake,” he supplies, with a grin. “Her brother.”

Clarke feels heat race up her neck and into her cheeks, and she whirls on him, staring. They don’t look so much alike, but now that she’s paying attention, she can see the resemblances, the similarities in their faces.

“I didn’t know you’d be here, O,” he adds.

“ _You_  didn’t know  _I’d_  be here? You never come to these! I’d all but given up on introducing you to Clarke. This is Clarke, by the way, Bell. I can’t believe he didn’t tell you who he was!”

“I saw him looking at you, I assumed he wanted an introduction,” Clarke admits. “I didn’t give him much choice.”

“I did want to talk to her,” says Bellamy, easy. “And I assumed I’d get the introduction to you while we were at it.” He sobers. “I have been wanting to meet you. Thank you for taking care of my sister.”

“I don’t need taking care of!” Octavia protests.

“She doesn’t,” Clarke agrees. “And I think I’m probably a bad influence. But it is a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Not that he was broad and handsome with dark eyes and an infectious smile, of course, but Octavia wouldn’t have mentioned those things.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, leaning in to kiss her hand.

Octavia is smirking, and Clarke does her best to ignore it. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says, smug, and leaves to go find other conversational partners.

“I believe we’re being set up, Lieutenant Blake,” Clarke tells him.

That grin again, wide and bright and so, so charming. “I certainly hope so.”


	22. She's Over Bored and Self Assured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cheerleader!clarke skipping class to make out with bellamy behind the bleachers!
> 
> For [jane-rafael](http://jane-rafael.tumblr.com/)!

The first time Bellamy Blake runs into Clarke Griffin behind the bleachers, it’s sophomore year, and she’s crying.

“Oh, uh,” he says, awkward. He’s never found the bleachers already occupied, but he knows of Clarke Griffin, and he heard her dad died recently, so she probably just wants to be alone. He should have just left before she noticed him, but it’s too late for that. She’s looking at him now. “I didn’t know anyone was back here, sorry.”

She’s frowning, but it looks more like confusion than anything. “Bellamy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a free period,” he says. “I come here to read.”

She sniffles and scoots over, like there isn’t plenty of room without her moving. It’s a gesture, and he takes it, sliding in and sitting next to her. “Why here?” she asks. “Why not the library?”

“The librarian hates me,” he admits. “I, uh. My friend dared me to streak through there last semester, so she basically thinks I’m a dangerous hooligan.”

Clarke giggles, watery but real. “How did I not hear about this?”

“It was after school and I made him swear not to tell.”

“I’m amazed it worked.”

“Yeah, me too. I thought he was more of a dick than that. I had to reassess our friendship.”

She’s still smiling, resting her cheek on her knees, watching him. “You’re only friends with dicks?”

“They mind less that I’m a dick.”

“Makes sense. What are you reading?”

They talk until the end of the period, mostly about Bellamy. He’s dealt with enough grief that he knows better than to push. If hearing about his little sister will help her, he can do that.

“Thanks,” she says, when the bell rings.

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “Any time.”

*

She doesn’t come every day, but she starts coming regularly, once or twice a week, just sitting with him behind the bleachers and doing her own work, not talking much. They aren’t friends, of course. It’s the only time they see each other, and they don’t run in the same circles. Bellamy’s poor and surly and doesn’t have parents to fight to make sure teachers treat him right and he gets in the best classes. Clarke is high-school royalty, rich and popular, a cheerleader whose entire life is going to be perfect.

Except her dad won’t be in it.

And he likes her more than he expected to, now that they’re interacting. She’s smart and sarcastic, not the shallow, stuck-up princess he’d expected, and she seems to like him pretty well too. She keeps coming back, after all. He finds, when summer comes around, that he misses her, misses the forty minutes he got of her every week. He finds himself wondering if he could call her and immediately dismisses the idea as idiotic. She probably doesn’t care at all. 

Junior year, he manages to talk his way into a couple of AP classes, and Clarke is in them too. He doesn’t know what to expect, but she sits near enough to him to trade glances, if not always conversation, in every one, and relief floods through him that last year wasn’t a total fluke.

After a week, she finds him on the way out of US History and says, “When’s your free period this year?”

“Uh, third,” he says. “Why?”

Her grin is impish. “We’ve got a date, right?”

He doesn’t swallow his own tongue, but it takes real effort. “Right.”

*

“What do you have this period?” he asks, the first time she shows up behind the bleachers. She’s wearing shorts that show off miles of legs and a t-shirt that’s too tight. Bellamy’s far from inexperienced with girls, but it feels different with Clarke, electricity pulsing through his limbs every time she sits down next to him.

“AP Bio.”

“You’re cutting AP Bio?” he asks, shocked.

“It’s with Dr. Tsing, she doesn’t give a shit.”

“Must be nice,” he says. “Teachers not giving a shit about you.”

“Sorry,” she says.

He shrugs. “It’s not like I don’t get away with tons of shit.”

“Like streaking.”

“Like streaking.” He gives it a minute and then says, “You know, you don’t have to cut class to hang out with me.”

It feels dangerous, telling her that. They aren’t friends, and she’s–she has a boyfriend, as far as she knows. Last he heard, she was dating Finn Collins. Not that he keeps up with gossip, but Finn had apparently had another girlfriend and it was all anyone talked about for a straight week. Bellamy hadn’t wanted to care, but–it was about  _Clarke_.

“I know,” she says. “We should definitely hang out more. But I still like coming here. It’s–” She shrugs a little, looking down at her textbook. “It’s nice.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But it’s not worth failing AP Bio.”

“Trust me, I’m never failing AP Bio. But thanks for your concern.” She shifts closer, brushing her shoulder against his. “Plus, you’re better at history than I am. As long as I’ve got you, let’s talk the French and Indian War.”

“Wow,” he says, grinning. “You sure know how to sweet talk a guy.”

Her smirk is smug enough that he’s sure she knows he’s not really being sarcastic. But all she says is, “I sure do.”

*

It’s a month later when she slides under the bleacher in her actual cheerleader uniform. It shouldn’t be a surprise–it’s Friday, there’s a pep rally, all the cheerleaders are wearing their uniforms–but she’s never showed up to meet him here, in private, dressed like that, and he was not prepared.

It is really cliched to be into cheerleaders, but it’s a cliche for a  _reason_.

“Hey,” she says, pulling her knees up, making the skirt slide down her thighs.

He jerks his eyes away with an effort and manages a smile. “Hey. Happy pep rally.”

“Please tell me you don’t actually enjoy pep rallies.”

“Nope. They’re the worst.”

“No argument here.”

He snorts. “I don’t even know why you’re a cheerleader, honestly.”

“All my friends were doing it,” she says, leaning back and closing her eyes. Bellamy lets himself check her out again, while she’s not paying attention. She has fucking  _amazing_  legs, and the skirt is sliding low enough he can see almost all of them. She  _has_  to have noticed what she’s doing. It doesn’t make it okay, but–well, at least she’s aware. “It seemed like one of the less painful sports I could do. I always liked gymnastics, but we don’t have a team, and it kept my mom off my back.”

“I guess that makes sense,” he says, absent.

“You’re staring,” she says, and he realizes they’ve been quiet for a bit and she caught him looking at her legs.

“Uh, shit. Sorry.”

Her smile widens. “Don’t apologize. Keep doing it. Or, you know. Whatever you want.”

He flicks his eyes up to hers, heart in his throat. “Whatever I want?”

“Assuming you want to hook up, yeah.”

“Not really,” he admits, and curses under his breath when her face falls. “No, I mean–you’ve got a boyfriend, right? Finn?”

Her smile recovers a little. “Nope. We broke up over the summer.”

“Oh.” He licks his lips, slides his hand into her hair. “I don’t want to  _just_  hook up,” he clarifies. “Whatever I want includes dates. Hanging out in public. Boyfriend shit.”

“That’s doable, yeah,” she says, smiling. “But seriously, I’ve been having really cliched fantasies about hooking up behind the bleachers for months.”

“You’re even in your uniform,” he teases. “If only I was on the football team.”

“Nah, I’m not into jocks,” she says, and finally climbs into his lap, leans in to capture his mouth with hers. She tastes like fruity lip gloss and toothpaste, and Bellamy slides his hands up her legs, rucking up the skirt again, kissing back like he’s starving for her. He honestly might be; over the last year, he’s wanted her so much he fucking  _aches_  with it, and having her pressed up against him, mouth hot and eager, is even better than he imagined.

“Fuck,” he groans, tugging her closer, fingers digging in to grope her ass, and she laughs against his mouth.

“Is that something you want?” she teases.

He scrapes his tongue against her neck. “I’m buying you dinner first.”

“Such a romantic.”

“I’m buying you dinner as soon as possible,” he adds, and she grinds down against him.

“Yeah, you better.”

*

She’s back behind the bleachers the next Thursday, and she climbs into his lap and kisses him without preamble.

“Hi,” he says, laughing against her mouth and kissing back. “You definitely don’t have to cut AP Bio just to make out with me. You can do that any time.”

“But AP Bio is my favorite time to make out with you,” she says, grinning and sliding her hands under his shirt.

He leans forward so she can tug the shirt off. “Mine too,” he admits, and pulls her back to him.


	23. Best Laid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellamy/Clarke, any kind of modern AU where Bellamy has Big Proposal Plans but everything manages to go wrong somehow (except for the part where Clarke says yes, duh). 
> 
> For [live-laugh-loaf](http://live-laugh-loaf.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy doesn’t really think of himself as a romantic.

He’s a good boyfriend, he knows that. He makes Clarke happy, most of the time. More of the time than he makes her unhappy, for sure. She loves him, she’s staying with him, and he’s pretty confident that when he asks her to marry him, she’ll say yes.

But it’s supposed to be romantic, right? He can’t just nudge her in the shin when they’re watching TV or drop the ring in her lap at breakfast or something like that. He’s asking he to spend the rest of her life with him; it’s a big deal.

It doesn’t help that all of their engaged and/or married friends have great engagement stories. Lincoln proposed to Octavia on a mountain, the mountain where they met on a group hike, on the anniversary of that first meeting, and he put the ring in their dog’s collar, and they have all these selfies of her showing it off with him and the dog and the sunset in the background, and obviously he’s happy for them, but, jesus christ, it’s a high bar to set. Wells got Monty to help him  _program a fucking video game_ , and when Raven beat it after three sleepless days, it flashed a pixelated diamond ring and popped the question. She’d been livestreaming the whole thing on Twitch and actually started crying and nearly murdered him for making her show so much emotion in front of her followers, but in a nice way. And he had specifically warned her she might not want to stream it, so she couldn’t even really blame him.

Even  _Miller_  managed a romantic proposal, and Miller is about as competent with feelings as Bellamy is.

But he can’t come up with  _anything_. He and Clarke were friends for years before they finally managed to coordinate dating, and about all he has to work with from the start of their relationship is that they hooked up at a Christmas party. Given he finally manages to budget for the ring at the end of November, that’s something easy to latch onto, but proposing to his girlfriend at Christmas feels like a minefield of schmaltz, cliche, and sappiness. None of which are really what he wants.

What he wants is for Clarke to have a good memory of him asking her to marry him, something she can hold up next to the stories her friends have without feeling like her husband was phoning it in. And, once he’s got that, he wants her to say yes.

“I can’t just wrap up the ring and put it under the tree, right?” he asks Miller. They’re playing one-on-one basketball while Bellamy quietly freaks out; Miller is just letting it happen, which means he must be very clearly in distress. It takes a lot for Miller to not mock him.

“Why not?” Miller asks. “You can do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, but–” He huffs. “It’s a shitty proposal, right? Yours was good, help me out.”

Monty and Miller haven’t ever shared the full details of the proposal with him, but he knows that it involved Miller giving an actual  _speech_. He’d also made the rings himself, which is some fucking dedication. Bellamy is starting to wonder if he doesn’t have enough practical skills to propose to Clarke. He can’t make her anything cool.

“You want to know what I did?” Miller asks.

“Desperately.”

“I thought about Monty, and what I thought would make him happy,” says Miller. “That’s it.”

“Jesus,” says Bellamy, rubbing his face. “I was hoping for a life hack, not a Hallmark card.”

“She’s your girlfriend. You’re proposing to her. If you don’t know what she likes by now, you maybe shouldn’t be asking her to marry you.”

“I know what she likes,” he says. It comes out petulant. “Just none of it really lends itself to romantic proposal ideas. She likes politics and art and picking fights on the internet.”

“You should start a flame war on reddit for her.”

“Record a video of myself proposing, post it on YouTube, link it everywhere, get a bunch of troll comments and let her argue with them.”

“Clarke sounds like a dude’s name, you’d probably get some homophobes and everything.”

“Perfect.” He sighs and jogs off the court, grabbing water and tossing a bottle to Miller. “Seriously, I love her, she’s perfect, I want to do something special. But I’m having–proposal writer’s block, I guess.”

“Don’t overthink it,” says Miller, clapping him on the shoulder. “She loves you. Don’t psych yourself out and fuck it up.”

It’s good advice; Bellamy really wishes he could take it.

Instead, he starts coming up with Ideas.

The first Idea is fairly straight-forward: they go out for a nice dinner, he gives a speech about how much he loves her and how important she is, gets down on one knee, and pops the question. It’s nothing mindblowing, not some beautiful, unique plan, but it’s heartfelt, honest, and kind of romantic. It’s maybe a little utilitarian, but if he sells the speech, he thinks it’ll be fine. And he’s always had a knack for speeches.

The first step goes really well; Clarke is surprised he wants to get a nice dinner, but she doesn’t seem suspicious. She puts on a nice dress and does her hair, and when he tells her she looks gorgeous, she just grins.

“Well, I want you to put out.”

It’s going exactly according to plan until some other guy gets a ring delivered to his girlfriend in a glass of champagne. Which isn’t a problem in and of itself, Bellamy doesn’t care about having his thunder stolen or anything, but Clarke looks pissed about the whole thing.

“What?”

“I hate public proposals like that,” says Clarke, scowling at her salad. “It’s so–I know it’s supposed to be romantic, but it just feels gross to me, if it’s really a surprise. There’s so much pressure to say yes because of the audience.”

Bellamy is suddenly very, very glad he didn’t do the thing where he gave the restaurant the ring to put into her drink or something; it’s easy to just cancel the proposal plan and turn it into a regular nice meal. And he even learned something about the right way to propose to Clarke: in private.

The second plan is, in all honesty, way too complicated. It’s an actual  _scavenger hunt_ , because he figures that’s cool, right? Clarke likes puzzles.

Unfortunately, she’s not great at  _recognizing_  puzzles. He emails her the first clue while she’s at work, and she instantly replies,  _Got a weird jibberish message from you, change all your passwords._

_It’s a riddle_ , he replies.

_Oh, cool. I assume the answer is your dick. Or my mom. One of those. Final answer._

He loves her. Really. But, god.

“Sorry I didn’t give your riddle the time it deserved,” she remarks, when she gets home. “It was such a hectic day.”

He can’t even bring himself to be annoyed; it would have taken her forever. So he just presses a kiss to her temple and says, “Want to tell me about it?” and goes to dig the ring back up the next day.

His third Idea is to try to put it in a Christmas tree ornament, but he realizes that would involve making one and then tricking her into breaking it, so he talks himself out of it about ten minutes into googling glassblowing classes in the area.

The next few are along those lines; sure he  _could_  take up horseback riding so he’d be able to rent a horse–can you rent a horse?–and take her to a special picnic, but that would take a while and he’s not even sure Clarke  _likes_  horses. He makes an attempt to cook for her that ends in nearly burning down the kitchen. He tries to hide the ring in her boot, and it disappears the next day.

“New boots?” he asks, the morning after that.

“Yeah, my old ones weren’t watertight anymore,” she says, easy, and he has to dig through the dumpster to get the ring back.

If he believed in fate and omens and all that, he might think the universe was trying to tell him something.

Instead, after four failed actual attempts and countless ideas dismissed before they became actual attempts, it’s Christmas Eve and he and Clarke are curled up on the couch watching  _Love, Actually_  when he finds himself saying, “Did you know I’ve been trying to propose to you all month?”

She squirms around in his arms so she can look at him. “Of course not. How do you fail to propose? Isn’t it pretty easy?”

She sounds positively gleeful, and he finds himself smiling too. It really  _should_  be easy. “Well, first I took you out to dinner and you said you hated public proposals, so–”

She covers her mouth. “Oh shit. You were going to–”

“It was good to get the feedback first,” he says. “Then I tried to send you on a scavenger hunt for the ring and you thought my email got hacked–”

“Oh my god. You could have just told me to do it!”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”

Clarke tugs him down for a kiss. “You made a proposal scavenger hunt. You’re allowed to make a big deal about that. It’s amazing.”

He flushes. “It felt stupid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not–I really wanted to do it right. Give you a cool engagement story.”

Her eyes are soft. “That’s–it’s really sweet. But I don’t care even slightly.” She tangles her fingers in his hair. “Do you have the ring?”

“Yeah.”

“If I say I’ll marry you, can I have it?”

He grins. “That’s the idea, yeah.”

In the end, Clarke’s engagement story is that Bellamy failed to propose for an entire month because he was trying to make it special, and she loves telling it. So he figures he did the whole proposing thing fine, after all.


	24. like yeah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke + “we work out at the same gym and you always look super legit but i know you sing hannah montana in the shower and you know i know”.
> 
> For [bravnlarke](http://bravnlarke.tumblr.com/)!

Hot Gym Guy definitely looks legit. If he didn’t, Clarke never would have started calling him Hot Gym Guy. Her first nickname for him was Cute Hoodie Dude, because the first time she saw him, he was wearing a hoodie, and she vaguely registered that he was decently attractive–curly black hair, smooth tan skin, and freckles–but she hadn’t paid much attention to him.

Then he took off the hoodie and he was wearing this black tanktop, and Clarke saw his fucking  _insane_  arms, and he instantly became Hot Gym Guy.

It was an optimistic title, because it was her first time at the gym, and for all she knew, she’d never see him again. He could come different days than she does, or maybe he’s not really a regular. But, luckily for her, he is a regular, and he seems to keep a similar schedule to her. He does weights right in front of the treadmill she likes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and it is truly excellent.

She doesn’t talk to him or anything, because that would be weird, but she does pay attention to him. At one point, his bag spills when he’s putting it down and she sees it’s full of history books, so he’s probably smart, and he always looks really put-together when he comes out of the shower, button-down shirts and nice slacks or flattering jeans, which Clarke appreciates. She likes guys who put some thought into their appearance. And they occasionally make eye contact and roll their eyes at dumb commercials, so she figures they have something in common. It’s not much, but it’s way ahead of her gym relationships with Intense Brunette and Mohawked Bodybuilder.

Unfortunately, Hot Gym Guy is the one who catches her in the shower belting “Party in the USA.”

It’s later than she usually comes in, Friday night, and she hadn’t realized anyone else was around. The only reason she’s even in this late was that she had a work event and she’s trying to go to the gym three times a week, and if she misses one, she’s just going to start taking any excuse to not go. She’s going to try to at least get through March with her New Year’s resolution. It’s not an unachievable goal.

The gym has coed showers, connected to two separate locker rooms, so she’s used to having plenty of other people around, both male and female, but it had been like a ghost town when she came into the shower. So she’d put on her music and rocked out, because, fuck it, it’s been a long week and she’s tired and done with this shit.

So it’s no surprise she didn’t hear another shower start up. She only realizes she’s not alone when she turns off her own shower and hears another one still going.

She’s not really sure what the etiquette is for discovering you’ve been loudly signing bubblegum pop with an audience, so she just turns it off and starts drying off. If she’s lucky, she’ll be out before the other person finishes, and her identity will remain forever a mystery.

But, of course, the other shower turns off within seconds, and Clarke and Hot Gym Guy come out at almost the same time, wrapped in their respective towels. He gives her a smile and Clarke blurts out, “You weren’t here!”

“Sorry?”

She realizes it’s a weird statement, and she corrects to, “I’ve seen you lifting weights. I didn’t see you tonight.” She hasn’t seen him all week, but it seems even worse to admit she knew that. At least tonight, she would have noticed if anyone had been around. And she knows he’s peripherally aware of her, if nothing else.

His smile grows. “Yeah, I alternate weights and pool. Friday’s usually a weight day, but I’ve been doing overtime on a project all week and swimming is more relaxing.”

“Oh,” says Clarke, blank. She tries not to think about Hot Gym Guy swimming. He’s already shirtless and wet, and imagining him in the water is even worse. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

She’s about to apologize for the music, but before she can, he asks, “What are you doing here so late?”

“Work thing too,” she says. “We had a party, I didn’t want to skip a gym day or I’d just start taking any excuse.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. “Are you taking the train home?”

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

“It’s late,” he says. “Wait for me once you get changed, I’ll walk you to the station.” She raises her eyebrows, and he finally flushes. “Sorry, is that weird? Just–it’s a pretty good neighborhood, but better safe than sorry, right?”

She finds herself smiling. “No, thanks, that’s–I appreciate it.”

“Sure.” He offers his hand, and it’s only a little weird to be officially meeting Hot Gym Guy in the shower room in towels. “I’m Bellamy, by the way. You do the treadmill, right?”

“Yeah. Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “See you in few minutes?”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

He shrugs. “I’m going that way anyway.”

She gets her hair sufficiently dry, changes into her spare clothes, and finds Bellamy already waiting for her in a t-shirt and jeans. He looks so mature and competent that she almost flushes. He’s being very nice. Polite. She’d say he was being  _professional_ , except they’re not in a work context. But she can’t shake the knowledge that he heard her not only listening to a playlist she literally called  _Embarrassing Pop Hits_ , but singing along to it. He might not be mentioning it, but she can see a spark in his eyes, something bright and teasing, every time he looks at her, and he  _knows_.

But all he says is, “So, what was your work party?”

“Fund raiser,” she says. “My least favorite part of my job. Sucking up to rich donors, convincing them giving money to us will make them feel more okay about their excessive wealth.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I can tell you love it.”

“Everything else is good,” Clarke says. “I’m a pediatrician at a free clinic, I love that side of it. But I wish I could skip this stuff.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“What’s your project?”

“Huh?”

“You said you’d been staying late for a project?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s really boring,” he says, waving his hand, dismissive. “I have a totally dull office job and no one cares. I won’t bore you with details.” He offers a smile, somewhat sheepish. “Sorry, people always act like I’m just being modest, but, seriously, I do filing at a tax office, there is nothing exciting to say about it. We’ve got an audit right now, so it’s been overtime for everyone all week, and probably next week.”

“Sucks.”

“I’m hourly, so at least I’m getting some extra cash. But, yeah, I’m finally financially stable enough that I’d rather have free time than extra money. Which is kind of cool to know about myself, I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, anyway. Inbound or outbound?”

“Inbound.”

“Outbound,” he says. “I’d say I’ll see you next week, but I’m probably on overtime for at least two more, so–I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Thanks for the escort, Bellamy.”

“Any time, Miley,” he says, and leaves for his train with an over-the-shoulder wave before she can come up with a response.

*

She doesn’t mean to run into him again, not after hours, when it’s nearly deserted. But a week and a half later, her last appointment on Wednesday goes over, and it’s really stressful, and she’s tired and grumpy and exercise sounds like a much better way to deal with her feelings than eating her feelings or getting drunk.

Plus, she hasn’t seen Bellamy since he left her at the train station, and she’s all too aware that he might be there. Which, okay, she might have completely humiliated herself with the singing, but he’s still pretty to look at.

Unfortunately, when she arrives, he’s not at the weights. She considers going to see if he’s in the pool, but they’ve only actually spoken  _once_. It would be fucking weird for her to try to track him down.

Still, the exercise does clear her head, and she’s feeling pretty good as she heads into the shower.

She feels even better when she hears someone–definitely a guy, definitely  _Bellamy_ –in the shower singing what is, without a doubt, the Backstreet Boys classic “I Want It That Way.”

Life is  _awesome_.

She debates for a minute and then sits on the sink in front of his stall, swinging her legs, because, honestly, if she starts showering and misses Bellamy, she will be very disappointed. She really needs to even the embarrassing-singing playing field.

Bellamy comes out of the shower in his towel, and Clarke grins at him. “Nice song selection.”

“Jesus Christ!” he says, nearly jumping out of his skin. “Holy shit, how long have you been there?”

“Just a minute. I was going to take a shower, but I was enjoying the show.”

He’s recovered enough to grin. “Always glad to be entertaining. Another party?”

“No, my last patient was–” She bites her lip, trying to figure out the best way to put it, and he’s at her side in an instant, all concern.

“Everything okay? Did something happen?”

She smiles. “Oh, yeah, it’s fine, she’s in the ER, she should make a full recovery, I just–hate health care in this country and I’m sick of people being afraid to go to the doctor when they need it because they can’t afford it and I never feel like what I’m doing is enough, and–” She rubs her face. “And I should take a shower and go home and not dump on strangers after a long day. Sorry.”

“Or you could take a shower and let me buy you something to eat and tell me more about it,” he offers. “Or just have a Miley Cyrus dance party with me. I’m not picky.”

“Shut up, you were singing  _Backstreet Boys_ ,” she says, laughing.

“That’s why I’d be involved in the dance party,” he says, and bumps his shoulder against hers. “Seriously, take a shower, you smell awful.”

When she leaves the locker room, clean and dressed and feeling much more human, Bellamy is waiting for her with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “I was serious about the food. And the dance party.”

She grins and falls into step with him. “Favorite boy band?”

“Definitely Backstreet Boys,” he says. “Or Hanson. I have a little sister and mild lingering Stockholm Syndrome from high school.”

“Girl band?”

“Does Taylor Swift count? I’ve listed to 1989 a lot.”

Clarke has to laugh. “Okay, yeah. Please buy me some food and talk to me about pop music.”

The next time he at the gym at his regular time, he mouths Hanson lyrics at her the whole time, and he follows her home after.

She’s pretty sure she’s not going to have any trouble keeping up her gym routine.


	25. and the reindeer you rode in on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellamy/Clarke- Bellamy is weirdly into Christmas decorations and Clarke can't stand them
> 
> For [ppyajunebug](http://ppyajunebug.tumblr.com/)!

It takes a while for Bellamy to figure out that Clarke really, really hates Christmas decorations.

Part of it is, of course, that it never would have occurred to him that anyone would hate  _decorations_. He can get hating Christmas. He’s basically an atheist, and all of the weirdness surrounding the war on Christmas is pretty off-putting, but he still likes the holiday, broadly. And he loves decorations. They could never afford a lot in terms of actual presents when he and O were kids, but they had boxes of his grandma’s ornaments and a fake tree that his mom kept in the attic, never worth selling, so he could still make the holidays special for her for a long time.

So he never expected Clarke might not like decorations. They’re just–he doesn’t really believe in Christmas magic or anything, but they make him feel warm and fuzzy. And she’s done Secret Santa in the past, exchanged gifts with him and O, so he knows she celebrates, generally.

The first clue he gets that Christmas decorations don’t do it for her comes when he brings up the tree.

“Hey, you busy?” he asks.

“Not really, why?”

“Christmas tree!”

“That doesn’t really answer the question.”

“I’m gonna go cut down a tree, you coming?”

“You cut down trees?” she asks, dubious.

“I skip and jump, et cetera,” he says. “It’ll be fun. You can be impressed by my muscles and manly antics.”

“I’m good, thanks,” she says. “But have fun.”

He figures she’s just enjoying her book or possibly doesn’t want to risk being overcome with lust at the sight of him being rugged and outdoorsy (he can dream, okay?), so it doesn’t really bother him.

Then she doesn’t want to help him and Octavia trim the tree, but she makes it out like it’s about not wanting to intrude on their family time. Even with their assurances, he gets how it could be weird, so he doesn’t push.

Then, he realizes she’s actively avoiding the living room, and that is fucking  _bizarre_.

He tries to be subtle about asking at first, telling her to come in to look at something, bringing her books in there to see if she’ll get them, asking if she wants to watch Netflix on the big TV, and she deflects or tells him to bring stuff to her or says she’s turning in early.

He could say something, but he and Clarke tend to prefer subterfuge to direct conversations, when they’re both sober, so he just puts out some more decorations, to test his Clarke-hates-Christmas-decorations theory.

The paper Santa he puts in the kitchen gets water spilled on it. That’s how Clarke says it too, like she wasn’t involved. Some kind of randomly occurring water killed the thing. It was an act of god, the way she tells it. The holiday cards he puts in the hallway get moved to his room because they don’t fit in with the decor. She throws the mistletoe at his face and tells him if he wants to kiss her, he has to own it. Which, okay, fair enough.

Still, the only trace of Christmas she allows in the apartment is the tree, and she avoids it as much as possible, so on the first day of his holiday break, he packs it up, drives it over to Octavia’s, and puts it back up at her place. He probably should have done that in the first place, honestly. But he likes having a tree.

Not as much as he likes Clarke, though.

She notices as soon as she gets home, when there’s no soft light coming out of the living room. She sticks her head in and frowns. “Where did your tree go?” asks.

“You hated it.”

She sits down next to him on the couch. “No, I didn’t.”

“This is the first time you’ve sat on the couch since it went up.”

There’s a pause, and then she sighs. “It was that obvious, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, avoiding an entire room isn’t really subtle. And you destroyed all my other decorations.”

“I didn’t destroy anything but that Santa, and that thing was creepy. It deserved to die. Your cards and mistletoe survived. Well, the mistletoe technically survived.” She glances at him. “Where did the tree go?”

“Octavia’s. Why do you hate Christmas?”

“I don’t hate Christmas. Christmas is fine. I like giving people presents and all of that. But I can’t–I have trouble with the decorations, yeah. My dad was really into those. He was one of those people who did the entire house and yard with lights and everything and it’s just–I know it’s irrational, but it doesn’t feel right without him.”

“So that’s why you basically hibernate through December,” he says. He figured she just hated the cold, and he wouldn’t blame her. But it’s hard to go downtown without tripping over a light show. “You could have told me,” he says, trying to keep his voice gentle. “Just–I wouldn’t have put anything up if I knew. All you had to do was ask.”

“I figured it would be okay, just–it did look like what he’d do. But Octavia told me how much you like the tree.”

“I like you more,” he says. “Seriously.” He pauses, but if he’s learned anything from Christmas movies, it’s that the holidays are a good time to fuck up your life with romance. And she’s sitting closer than usual, looks happy and grateful. He’s not going to get a better chance. He’s getting tired of not saying anything. After six months of being roommates and years of being tragically platonic soulmates, he’s finally fed up. “And if I knew I just got one decoration, I would have kept the mistletoe.”

“Really? Over the tree?”

“The tree was what I did for Octavia when we were kids. It’s cool and all, but I’d rather make out.”

Clarke laughs, shifts in, side flush against his, and he feels his heart rate pick up. “I told you, if you want to make out, you have to own that.” She bites her lip, smiles. “Thanks for getting rid of the tree.”

“Fuck the tree,” says Bellamy, and kisses her.

Clarke laughs and slides her arms around his neck. “That’s what I’ve been saying, yeah.” She smiles. “Fuck the mistletoe too. You really don’t need it.”

“Awesome,” he says, and leans back in for a much longer second kiss.

The next year, she brings home a small, kind of sad Charlie-Brown Christmas tree.

“I think I can handle this. It’s so pathetic, it doesn’t even feel like Christmas. I just feel sorry for it.”

“Yeah? We don’t have to. I don’t care.”

She smiles, nudges her nose against his neck. “Christmas traditions could be nice, you know? I think we could work on it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, unable to keep a smile off his face. “We can work on it.”


	26. Like One of Your French Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Clarke being really inept about Bellamy, having seen him only a couple of times and not knowing his name but she really wants to draw him and/or fuck him.
> 
> For [a-bacon-of-hope](http://a-bacon-of-hope.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke has been told, multiple times, that she should rebound.

“It’s not really my thing,” she tells Raven. Raven doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, and Clarke shrugs. “I’m not really into casual sex.”

“It’s not casual sex. It’s, like–when you go to a fancy restaurant and they give you the ice cream between courses. Palate cleanser. But, you know. For your vagina.”

Clarke chokes on her beer. “Holy shit, never say that again.”

“I’m just saying, it helps. You know how I got over Finn?”

“We drank a lot and watched Netflix and photoshopped pictures of him from Facebook so he looked like he had horns and boils.”

“Also, I fucked a hot guy, and it was awesome.”

“It still took you a while after that,” Clarke points out, gentle, and Raven finally scowls.

“Okay, I might have fucked him too soon. But how long has it been since you and Lexa broke up?”

“Six months,” Clarke admits.

“Yeah, that’s a while. I’m just saying, a rebound is like–no-pressure, getting you back on the horse. I know it sucked the way you guys broke up, but you shouldn’t be making yourself miserable.”

“I’m not. I’m just not dating.”

“Find a cute girl or a hot guy or a hot girl or a cute guy and fuck them,” Raven advises. “And you’ll feel way better about the world.”

“As always, I didn’t ask for or want your advice, but thanks, sort of.”

Raven grins. “What are friends for?”

*

The truth is, Clarke is mostly not hooking up because she forgot how. She’s not sure she ever knew how, honestly. She’s decently attractive and people like her, but she kind of has to be hit over the head with flirtation before she notices. Finn and Lexa both pursued her pretty hard, and she still didn’t figure it out for a while. Just going up to someone and hitting on them is outside of her experience. She just doesn’t know how.

But if she did, she knows exactly who she’d go for.

She’s pretty sure he’s a grad student, and he comes into the library every time she’s on shift on Tuesday. His usual study carrel is within sight of the AV checkout desk where she works, and she has idle fantasies about asking if he wants to make out or let her draw him or something. He always leans back and closes his eyes after he closes a book, like he’s letting the knowledge sink in, and Clarke can’t help staring at the line of his neck, the bulge of his Adam’s apple, the way his hair curls under his ears. He is, in a word, beautiful, and Clarke knows absolutely nothing about him except for that. It feels like how you’re supposed to pick rebound fucks.

She doesn’t know how to do that, though, and he probably wouldn’t be interested anyway. He probably doesn’t even know she exists. So it’s just–a fun thing to think about, in idle moments, when she’s bored and feeling kind of mopey about her love life. Not that she  _needs_  a relationship, or sex with a hot stranger. But she wishes her two serious college relationships had left her with an understanding of how to pursue people, for sex or romance, instead of just heartache.

Raven might have a point.

*

She’s at a party, mildly buzzed, trying to figure out if she can be the kind of person who hooks up with someone to reset her system, when she runs into library guy. Literally. She’s trying to find Raven, trips on the carpet, and plows into someone.

“Whoa,” he says, catching her, and she finds herself looking into vaguely familiar brown eyes. He has freckles. She couldn’t see them from their usual distance. “You okay?”

Clarke blinks, realizes she’s been staring. “Oh, yeah, sorry,” she says. His hands are still on her arms, and she wonders what Raven would do in this situation. Raven would know how to hook up with him.

He cocks his head, looking at her. “You work at the library, right?” he asks, and Clarke is pretty sure she was already red from the alcohol, so it’s probably not noticeable that she’s blushing. She hopes. She  _really_  hopes.

“Yeah, hi.”

“Hi.”

There’s no reason for the conversation to continue, but Clarke wants it to. This is her golden opportunity. She’s talking to him. He has a nice voice. And  _freckles_. “Have you ever modeled?” she bursts out.

He raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“Not, like, professionally, but you have amazing hair. And bone structure. Do you ever let people draw you?”

“No one’s ever asked,” he says, with a wry smile, like she’s not totally failing this. “Is this a normal thing for you? Asking strangers at parties if they let people draw them?”

“No, this is my first time.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be. I’m very selective with my drunken ramblings.”

That gets a laugh, and his laugh is great. So is his voice. He’s really, really attractive. “Awesome. I’m Bellamy, by the way.”

“Clarke.”

“How drunk are you?”

“Not that drunk, why?”

He bites his lip, which is seriously distracting me. “I’m kind of curious about this drawing thing. What do I have to do? Can I do it now? Is this like a caricature? Am I gonna have a giant head and be riding a skateboard?”

“I tend towards realism,” she says. “But I could probably work a skateboard in, if you want.” 

“Where do you draw?” he asks.

“Art building.”

“Can you get in?”

There are probably a lot of good reasons to not take a total stranger to the art building at one a.m. on a Friday night, but Clarke can’t come up with them. “Yeah, I can. Let me just find my friend and tell her I’m leaving?”

“Sure,” he says, and follows her to the beer pong table, where Raven and Monty are dominating, as always. “Raven?” he asks, sounding a little surprised.

“She’s my roommate,” she says. “You know her?”

He shrugs one shoulder in affirmation, and Raven spots them right as she wins and comes over. “Hey, holy shit! Do you guys know each other?”

“Not really,” says Clarke, glancing over her shoulder. “But, uh–I was going to show him the art studio.”

Raven grins like a fucking  _wolf_. “Yeah? Awesome.”

“Good to see you again,” Bellamy says, a little awkward, and Clarke isn’t particularly surprised when Raven texts,  _Why do we like all the same guys?? but who cares, A++ rebound, get it_

“So, you slept with Raven?” Clarke asks.

“Yeah. She was getting over some dick who cheated on her, I guess? Just a one-night thing.”

“I was the girl he cheated on her with.”

“Yeah? How’s that work? Cheating is a bad idea already, seems like cheating with roommates is a fucking disaster.”

“It is, he was a dick. We dumped him and kept each other.” She glances up at him, trying not to stare. She’s still a little tipsy, and he looks great in moonlight. “So, are you–grad student?”

“Yeah, first year. I was a senior when Raven and I hooked up.”

“What are you studying?”

“History. And you’re art, I guess. What year?”

“Junior.”

There’s a pause and then he says, “This is really weird, right? It seemed smooth when I asked about it, but now it’s just–weird.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I–yeah, it really is. I figured it was maybe just me. I’m bad at meeting people.”

“As long as we’re both inept.”

“How did you and Raven hook up?”

“Uh, it was Raven,” he says. “She just asked if I wanted to make out and I said yes.”

“Does that work?”

He considers, and then says, “It did, yeah. But–honestly, I’m not really a hookup kind of guy anymore. I got sick of it.”

“So this is what, exactly?”

“You’re going to draw me, right? I figure that gets me your number. And then I can call you.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean–why do you want to call me?”

He lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “So I can take you on a date? You’re cute. You, uh–at the library, you’re usually reading. I assume for fun. You have good taste in books.”

He looks embarrassed, and Clarke feels a surge of excitement. “I nearly started drawing you at the library once or twice,” she admits, swiping her ID to unlock the art building and pulling he door open for him.

“Thanks for waiting,” he says. “I want to see how it turns out.”

Clarke has to smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

*

As it turns out, Clarke really is  _terrible_ at rebounds. But she gets a lot better at dating.


	27. The Pilgriming Vine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke: the holiday au
> 
> For [xxkissesoohugs](http://xxkissesoohugs.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke has to go home.

There’s no way around it, right? She’s been here for two weeks, it would be insane and stupid to even be  _thinking_  of staying. She took a vacation. It was a good vacation–one of her best vacations, certainly her best since her father died–but at the end of the day, it’s two weeks. Statistically speaking, it’s a completely insignificant portion of her existence. It’s  _meaningless_.

The house exchange is over, and it’s time for her to go home, back to her real life. 

Which she left because she couldn’t deal with it.

“Fuck,” she says, rubbing her hand over her face. 

She doesn’t even know what she’d  _do_  here. It’s not like she loves DC. She got into politics because she was young and idealistic and wanted to make a difference, but she’s not good at it. Clarke is smart and savvy, a good leader, but she’s a terrible civic servant. She wants to make a difference in the world, and she’s  _not_. Even worse, she doesn’t even like what she is doing.

The last straw had been her girlfriend selling her out, breaking into her locked computer to steal information on the campaign she was working on. She’d barely even found anything worth using, but it was enough to make Clarke rethink her whole life. Lexa had been the best thing about DC for her, and with that over and burned to the ground, she didn’t even know what to do.

Switching houses with Maya Vie, a writer living in Wales, had seemed like the perfect solution. She’d spend two weeks in another country, far away from everything, and when it was over, she’d feel refreshed and ready to look at the rest of her life.

Instead, Bellamy Blake happened.

She met him her second night, when she’d started going crazy from having nothing to do. He was there at the pub, one of the few places to  _go_  in Maya’s tiny town, all tousled hair and dark eyes, and when he heard her ordering, he asked where in the States she was from.

She found out he was originally from New York and came to the United Kingdom for college, that he taught history at a nearby university, and that he was charming and wry and sweet, and that she liked him. It felt so  _easy_. A holiday fling. 

She didn’t realize she was falling for him until she found out he was cheating on her, and then she felt like an idiot. She remembered what it was like with Finn, swore she’d never fall for that shit again, and here she was.

When she stopped calling, he showed up, and it made something in her lurch. She knew every excuse, and she wasn’t going to fall for it.

And then he said, “She’s my sister.”

“What?”

“Octavia. She’s my little sister. She’s seventeen. She came to live with me when our mom died a couple years ago. It was really tough for the first few years.” He pulled up a picture of the two of them at a castle; Bellamy  _loves_  castles.

Clarke swallowed. “Oh.”

“So, yeah. That’s the other woman in my life.”

She put her head on her arms. “I had an ex who cheated on me. He tried to tell me–a lot of things.”

“You can meet her if it’ll make you feel better. She wants to meet you. She was making fun of me about–” He ducked his head, flushed. “Anyway. That’s–I just wanted to tell you.”

That was a week ago, halfway through her vacation. She should have just said no. She should have cut it off then.

Instead, she met his sister,  _liked_  his sister, and spent every one of her remaining nights with him.

And now it’s still time to leave. And that’s still what she should do. She can’t stay in  _Wales_. For a  _boy_. Or, fine, a man. A man she likes. A man who makes her smile, who’s grumpy in the morning and honestly a lot of the rest of the time, who’s got a smile that makes her heart skip, who loves his little sister and history and who–

He could probably love her someday. She could probably love him too. But it’s been two weeks, and she can’t make any decisions about her life based on a guy she’s known for two weeks. That’s not who she is.

She’s still sitting on Maya’s steps, staring at her rental car, not ready to go. She doesn’t know how to go, if she’s honest. She can’t imagine going back to her big, empty apartment in DC, the one that used to have Lexa in it, that’s just her now, that feels small and cold and sad.

Bellamy parks in front of the house, not blocking her car, and comes over to sit next to her on the steps.

“I thought I might have missed you,” he remarks. He looks wrecked, and Clarke’s heart lurches.

“You should have,” she says. “I’m supposed to be leaving.”

His head drops, and he looks down at his hands. “I know I’m not supposed to say this, but–I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t. I–God, Clarke, I don’t want you to leave. And I don’t think you  _should_  leave. Do you know how you sound when you talk about going back to DC? Because, seriously, it’s not good.” 

She wets her lips. “Maya’s coming back,” she points out.

“Yeah.” He rubs his face. “Fuck. Seriously, Clarke. I know how this sounds. I’m not–I’m not asking you to stay forever. I’m just–I think you’re not happy, and I want you to be. And I want you to stay here until you figure out how to be happy.”

“And how do you think you figure into this happiness?” she asks.

“I don’t know. That’s kind of up to you. You can let me know.”

“You’re asking me to move in with you. After two weeks.”

He lets out a long sigh. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m doing. But–I’m not asking you to marry me or anything. I just don’t want to lose you yet.” He wets his lips. “Please stay.”

“I can’t,” she says, realizing it as she says it. Before he can respond, she adds, “I have some things to take care of. But–I can come back.”

“Yeah?”

She catches his chin with her fingers, tilts his face to her and kisses him. “Give me a week, okay?”

“Okay,” he breathes. “I’m holding you to that.”

It only takes four days for her to be sure, and then she books the flight. She doesn’t call Bellamy until she gets to Heathrow.

“Hi,” he says, and the sound of his voice is such a relief it’s almost painful.

“Hi. I’m taking the train to you. Can you come pick me up?”

There’s a pause, and Clarke almost starts to worry he doesn’t want her to be there, that he changed his mind. But then he breathes, “Thank fuck,” and Clarke laughs. “I thought you might not come back,” he admits.

“Maybe not forever,” she says, but even though she knows it’s true, she can’t quite believe it. It  _feels_  like forever. 

And, as it turns out, it is.


	28. RAVEN/CLARKE All-Nighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Clarke/Raven modern political AU
> 
> For [cultofeve](http://cultofeve.tumblr.com/)!

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Raven says. It’s edging on towards midnight, and she’s used to being the only one at the office at these hours. She likes it, honestly. Her coworkers are broadly cool, but she works better alone.

She especially works better without Clarke Griffin, all warm and relaxed in a t-shirt and jeans instead of her regular office attire, watching her with open curiosity.

Raven hired onto Clarke’s campaign because she wanted to work for a female democrat who seemed to have a chance in hell of doing some real good, and all her research showed Clarke was the best match for that. Her mother is in politics too, so she’s got a legacy, and she’s openly liberal and well-spoken, appealing across demographics. She and Raven are in agreement on most policies, and once she met Clarke, she found she liked her as a person too.

That is, in fact, her biggest issue. After six months of working on Clarke’s website, social media, and general IT shit, Raven has found she  _really_  likes her. And thinks way too much, in her idle minutes, about how soft Clarke’s hair would be under her fingertips and how nice her smile would look in the morning, in Raven’s bed, her head on Raven’s pillow.

Yeah, bad thoughts to have about the boss. Even if Raven mostly answers to Kane, the campaign manager, and not Clarke herself. Clarke’s contributions to the website tend along the lines of  _more pictures of my dog, people love dogs_  and  _I checked my email and it’s all spam about penis enlargement how do I stop that_.

Which is why it’s even weirder that she’s still around. The only other person who ever stays as late as Raven is Bellamy, the speechwriter, because he’s a workaholic, but when he saw Clarke was hanging around, he fucking  _winked_  at Raven and said he had shit to do.

So, yeah. She’ll definitely murder Bellamy at some point in the near future. But she still has her current problem, which is that she’s supposed to be working and Clarke is  _smiling at her_.

“I know I don’t have to stay,” Clarke is saying. “But I don’t really like you being here alone.”

“I’m here alone a lot.”

“Why?”

“It’s pretty busy in here during regular work hours.” She grins. “No offense, but you do not have a quiet campaign staff. And it’s fun, don’t get me wrong, but it can be fucking distracting.” Clarke looks guilty at that, much guiltier than Raven would have expected. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have to stay late because it’s too noisy during work hours. That’s so unfair. Have you told Marcus? He could figure something out so you could have more privacy.”

Raven snorts. “It’s fine. I don’t do it that often. Do you yell at Bellamy about this too?”

“I’ve given up yelling at Bellamy,” she says, making a face. “He doesn’t know how to stop working. I thought you knew better.”

“Based on what?”

“General optimism.”

Raven actually laughs at that. Clarke is honestly kind of the best.

She needs to deal with this.

“Besides, I figure your girlfriend must hate you being out so much,” she continues, overly casual.

“What makes you think I have a girlfriend?” Her heart is hammering in her chest. She never has had a girlfriend, but she’s wanted one a couple times. She wants one  _now_.

“General optimism,” she says again, her smile soft. A late-night kind of smile, the kind that’s warm around the eyes and hazy around the edges. “I have faith that someone as cool as you isn’t single.”

“And the girlfriend part specifically?”

“Specific optimism. I want you to be into girls.”

“So you want me to be into girls but you also want me to be taken?”

“I basically want everyone to not be straight,” Clarke says. She’s openly bisexual, doesn’t ever shy away from it in her campaign, but Raven has never said it about herself. Thought it, worried about it even, but never said it. “And I think this might already count as sexual harassment, so it’s better for my, um–better for me if you’re taken.”

“I’m not,” says Raven. “Totally single.”

“There goes my faith in the universe,” she says, with a teasing smile.

“Yeah, well,” says Raven, cracking her neck and leaning back. It’s easier to act casual, to pretend she isn’t hoping she’s going to hook up with a congressional candidate in the office. That she isn’t hoping Clarke’s looking for more than a hookup. “I work a lot. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Girlfriend?”

“Definitely not,” she says, smiling at Raven through her eyelashes. “I’m enough of a creep to kind of hit on people who work for me, but not nearly enough of a creep to cheat on someone I’m dating.”

“How many of your employees have you hit on?”

“Just you,” she says. “Well, um, okay, I dated Bellamy in college, but I don’t think that counts. Since he wasn’t working for me.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She lets out a breath and tries to remember what she was doing. Or to figure out what she should be doing. Maybe she should just google  _How to hit on the political candidate you’re working for and not cause a sexual harassment case or a sex scandal_. But she’d probably just hit a bunch of West Wing fanfic. “I’ve never had a girlfriend,” she finally says, and responds to a couple assholes on Twitter, just so she feels like she’s being productive.

“Have you ever wanted one?”

“Once or twice, yeah.” She pauses. “Currently.”

“Cool,” says Clarke, coming to lean over Raven’s shoulder. “What are you working on?”

The change of subject throws her, but she recovers fast. “Just finished Twitter, moving on to Tumblr. Deciding which trolls are bad enough to troll back.”

“Troll back?”

She gestures to the screen. “You get a lot of nice messages, those are easy. Then you get some kind of shitty ones that are mostly ignorant. Those are the trickiest, I have to be polite but firm and not alienate people. But the troll ones are  _awesome_.”

“Yeah?”

“I convinced Kane that our best option is to let me be snarky at stuff like–” She scrolls through the asks, pulls up someone being really fucking homophobic. “Stuff like that.”

“Fuck,” says Clarke. “We get stuff like that?”

“Sometimes, yeah. So the thing is, anyone who thinks this is an okay thing to say already isn’t going to vote for you. Ditto anyone who thinks they deserve to be taken seriously. We’re a lot better off coming up with hilarious responses that will go viral. It helps your name recognition. It’s happened a couple times already.”

“Wow,” says Clarke. “I had no idea. That’s–awesome, actually. Thanks for talking Kane into letting you do that. So, what are you going to say?”

She opens up her gif folder and grabs Prince Zuko saying  _That’s rough, buddy_. It’s always a fan favorite. “A picture is worth a thousand words.” She glances at Clarke, grinning, and finds that Clarke is right at her shoulder, close and smiling, looking at Raven like this is the best day of her life. “I mean, uh,” she tries, eyes flitting down to Clarke’s lips, unconscious. When she meets Clarke’s eyes again, they’re sparkling, and she realizes a second before it happens that Clarke is going to kiss her.

Her mouth is soft and gentle, different from the men she’s kissed. There’s the taste of lipstick, and less demanding without really being less passionate or firm. Her hand threads into Raven’s hair when Raven begins to kiss her back, and Raven’s mouth opens on a moan as Clarke presses in. Her tongue traces Raven’s lips and then slides in, and Raven’s hands find Clarke’s hips, pull her in, onto Raven’s lap.

She has no idea how long the kiss lasts; time melts, stretches out, becomes meaningless, and there’s only Clarke’s mouth, Clarke’s hands tracing over her. No clothes come off, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else has ever been like this; nothing has been this hot.

“Are you done with this?” Clarke asks, when she finally pulls back. It takes a minute for the question to penetrate, but once it does, she starts to grin.

“I’m done,” she says. “But I’m starving. Have you had dinner?”

“Not yet.”

“You want to?”

Raven generally does not pick political candidates based on how beautiful their smiles are, but Clarke might become an exception, and this is her best smile yet. “Love to,” she says. “My place or yours?”


	29. You Don't Outgrow Punk, Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke + "Accidentally knocked you out when you got caught in the middle of a fist fight between me and this other kid during school. So I sat with you in the nurses office. Shut up! Punks like me have consciences to you know!" Bonus points if Clarke's the punk, but you do you.
> 
> For [goldenheadfreckledheart](http://goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these are late coming to AO3 today; star wars

Senior year, Bellamy is really planning to not fuck up his chances of graduating on time. He’s made more than his share of mistakes in his school career, but he’s so fucking close to finishing high school, getting into some cheap college, and having a prayer of supporting himself and maybe even making enough to help his sister out too. He’s being quiet and keeping his head down. He’s going to make it through this year.

It’s been  _one fucking week_  when Clarke Griffin punches him in the face.

Bellamy and Clarke aren’t friends, but they aren’t enemies either. He feels a weird sort of kinship with her, if he’s honest, because the two of them have been on opposing trajectories for the last year or so. Her dad died at about the same time his mom did, and while Bellamy realized he needed to straighten up and fly right, get himself together and be there to take care of his sister, since their foster parents wouldn’t, Clarke went from smart, responsible, straight-laced honor-student to surly, sullen rebel. He resented her for it at first, resented that she’d be fine even if she threw her entire life away in grief, that she was rich enough to be taken care of. But he hadn’t been able to keep it up, because he can project too many of his own feelings onto her. He can’t be pissed like he wants to, can’t show all his anger if he wants to take care of Octavia. So he lets Clarke Griffin be the embodiment of all his seething resentment, and she does an awesome job at it. They want to punch all the same people.

Present circumstances aside.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” she says, and it sounds like she means it. “Here, put this on your eye.”

He blinks and then winces. She’s offering him a  _handkerchief_. “What kind of delinquent carries a handkerchief?” he mutters.

“One who’s a fucking lady,” she says. “I wet it in the drinking fountain, it’ll help.”

“My eye hurts too,” says Murphy, and Clarke glares at him. He’s the only one of the guys from the brawl who didn’t scatter.

“I wanted to punch you, assface,” says Clarke. “Lick your own wounds.”

“Sorry I’m not as pretty as Blake,” he says.

“We’re all sorry.” She looks at Bellamy, concern all over her face. It’s kind of disconcerting. “Come on, the nurse should still be here.”

“I don’t want to miss the bus,” he says. He shouldn’t have gone to check out the fight in the first place, knew better, but the sound of a scuffle drew him in, and then he saw Clarke, outnumbered.

“I’ll give you a ride,” she promises, and he’s about to say yes when he sees, with his good eye, someone else coming–Mbege, maybe?–and just manages to throw himself at the guy, a stupid, irrational urge to help.

The next few seconds don’t really make sense to him as they’re happening. He does something, Clarke does something, Mbege does something, even Murphy does something, and then the world goes black.

*

Bellamy has never actually gotten knocked out before, and it’s kind of academically interesting, waking up with his head pounding and no real memory of how he got to wherever he is. New experiences are cool, in theory. But this one also really fucking hurts.

As his head clears, he registers the nurse’s office around him, an uncomfortable mattress under his back, the sound of voices creeping into his awareness.

“–right now!” someone is saying

“No, I’m not.” That voice is Clarke’s, cool and calm. “I said I’d give him a ride.”

“I don’t care about him. There’s a late bus, isn’t there? He can take that.”

“I care about him. He was helping me.”

“Helping you with a fight you shouldn’t have even been in. Clarke, your father wouldn’t have wanted–”

Clarke’s voice is so cold it makes him shiver, although the ice pack on his eye is probably also a factor. “You don’t get to talk about what Dad wanted. You didn’t care what he wanted when he was alive, you don’t get to start now that he’s dead.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yes, it is.”

“As long as you live in my house–”

“If you want me to stop living in your house, say the word. I’m eighteen, I have people who would take me in. And I’m sure the press would love to hear about how you kicked your daughter out. Covering up a few fights is easy, but disowning me? That’s not going to be popular with the electorate. You’d lose all the  _my husband is dead_  points you racked up.”

“That’s not fair, Clarke.”

“I’m not leaving him,” she says. “I’ll be home after I drop him off.”

“We aren’t done talking about this.”

“Believe me, I know.”

He thinks about closing his eyes as he hears footsteps approaching, just so she’ll think he didn’t hear, but–he’d rather she knew so she can decide what she wants to do about it.

She slumps into a chair next to him, rubbing her face. She looks exhausted, and he manages to raise his head enough to verify that her mother is gone before he says, “Hi.”

Clarke startles and then she’s over him, frantic with worry, her hair tickling his face. “Bellamy! Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. How do I tell? My head hurts and my eye hurts, that’s what I’ve got.”

“I’m so sorry. I was so scared,” she admits, and he feels a lump in his throat.

“I think I’m fine,” he says. “You can ask me concussion questions if you want. That’s like–math, right? What’s eight times five?”

She’s starting to smile, for which he’s grateful. He doesn’t like frantic, worried Clarke. “I think you’ve got this,” she says. “What is eight times five?”

“Forty.”

“Who’s the president?”

“Obama. But not for much longer.”

“Good job. I assume the nurse needs to clear you, but I think you’re fine. You’ll have a bump on your head and a black eye.”

“Awesome. Are those hot injuries or not? I can never remember. I just know scars are cool.”

She lets out a soft snort of laughter, shakes her head. “You’re beautiful,” she assures him. “I’ll go get the nurse.”

Either Ms. Allen trusts Clarke’s judgement or really wants to get home herself, because she clears him to leave in no time. Clarke puts her shoulder under his, supporting him, and he doesn’t really need it, but he can’t bring himself to push her away. He gave up girls as part of getting his life on track, and Clarke is warm and gorgeous, even with her own bruises.

“How much did you hear?” she asks, soft, as they’re walking through the parking lot.

“I don’t know what I missed, but–she tried to get you to come home, threatened to kick you out, and you told her you’d ruin her career. Basically. Some stuff about your dad. I don’t know. Sorry,” he adds, belatedly. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. I’m the one who knocked you out.”

“Did you?” he asks, with mild interest. “I missed what happened, honestly.”

“Mbenge decided he would hit me while I was distracted, you tried to get in front of me, I tried to punch him, Murphy tried to hit me, and then I ducked, hit you, you fell into the wall and passed out and basically all of us freaked out and brought you to the nurse.”

“Wow. I’m a peacemaker.” He licks his lips. “So–you and your mom seem functional.”

She snorts. “Right?”

“I won’t mention it to anyone,” he assures her. “I’m not going to start rumors or anything.”

“I didn’t think you would.” She’s quiet for a minute and then says, “She killed my dad.”

“Seems like more of a scandal than kicking you out,” he says, keeping his tone as light as hers. “If you’re trying to ruin her political career.”

She ducks away from him to get her keys and unlock her car. It’s a lot shittier than he would have expected her to have. “It wasn’t–she didn’t do it directly. He was working in what she knew were unsafe conditions, but she looked the other way with regulations because the company heads were contributing a lot to her political campaigns. She never told my dad, but he was researching it on his own. He blew the whistle, they got shut down, but–she got off scott free and he was already sick. It was too late and–he died a few months later.”

Most of it isn’t news; Bellamy read about the scandal and her dad’s death from related complications, but there was no mention of her mother. “Shit,” he says, and she laughs without humor.

“Basically, yeah. He left his part of the settlement to me, so–I’m just living with my mom until I figure out how to bust her, honestly.”

“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” he says.

“I think you’re safe,” she says. “I did knock you out when you were trying to help me. I owe you.” She wets her lips. “It meant a lot to me.”

“I didn’t do much. Mostly got knocked out.”

“Not that. After my dad died, you told me how sorry you were. And I knew you got it, because your mom died. I know we’re not friends, but–it really helped. And I never thanked you like I should have. I didn’t know what to say.”

“You thanked me plenty,” he assures her.

“It doesn’t feel like enough.”

He shouldn’t say it, but–he’s allowed to have  _some_  fun, right? He doesn’t have to be drinking and hooking up and getting in fights anymore, but he can still have a life. “Well, uh, if you want to thank me for everything, and apologize for giving me a black eye,” he says, voice gruff, and her eyes flick to him. He’s probably blushing. “I’m available for dinner on Friday.”

She’s quiet for a minute, but when he risks a look at her, there’s a smile playing on her lips. “I’ve got detention until five,” she says. “Apparently I got in a fight today. But I can pick you up after.”

“Awesome,” he says. “Try not to knock me out this time.”

“No promises.”


	30. Much is Taken, Much Abides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke modern au with tattoo artist Clarke and trying-to-get-his-first-tattoo Bellamy.
> 
> For [casuallyshadowyluminary](casuallyshadowyluminary.tumblr.com)!

Bellamy wants to be the kind of person who gets a tattoo, which is why he’s sitting in a tattoo parlor, one leg jiggling, staring at the rows of possible designs so hard his vision is blurring.

“Nervous?”

The blonde who sits next to him is pretty and does not, even a little, look like like the kind of person who gets a tattoo. She’s got her hair up in a smart bun, and she’s wearing a gray button-down, jeans, and a pair of sensible wire-rimmed glasses. Her only piercings are on her ears, and her eyes are clear and blue and seem genuinely interested.

“What?” he asks.

“You seem nervous. First time?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Oh, no, I'm here a lot.” He lets his eyes flick over her and then raises his eyebrows. Her smile widens. “Under the clothes. I want to have a good enough collection by this summer that when I put on a bikini at our family trip to Florida, my mom has a heart attack and dies of shock.”

He has to snort. “I guess that’s one way to not get convicted for matricide.”

“I’m working a long game,” she agrees. “What’s your plan?”

“My plan?”

“There’s no one getting ink done right now, so you’re not just waiting for a friend. I assume this means you’re waiting for an appointment. What do you want to get?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I was hoping inspiration would strike.”

“Really?”

“What?” he asks, feeling his hackles rise.

“Most people who make an appointment have a plan,” she says. “Something specific they want done. The people who are hoping for inspiration tend to be drunk and making bad choices.”

“Huh. You sound like you know a lot about it.”

She smiles and offers her hand. “Clarke Griffin. Assuming you’re Bellamy Blake, your appointment is with me.” He kind of gapes at her, and she grins. “Not what you were expecting?”

“A guy took the call, I sort of–” He’d been imagining a giant, taciturn muscle-bound guy covered in tattoos and piercings. He might have some stereotyping issues. “Yeah, not what I was expecting,” he settles on.

“Lincoln probably did the appointment. He has a mohawk and sleeve tattoos and a black belt, so he probably  _is_  what you were imagining,” she says.

“Sounds like just my sister’s type,” he grumbles, and Clarke grins and kicks her legs out, stretching in the chair.

“Okay, so, Bellamy Blake. Why are you getting a tattoo?”

He looks down at himself. “It felt sort of like–something I should do, you know? I always wanted one when I was a kid but I couldn’t afford it. And now I can.”

She nods. “So, you just generally like tattoos?”

“Yeah. And–” He glances at her. “Do you ever feel like a therapist?”

“Occasionally. But usually not this early on in meeting someone. Still, go ahead. Do you want coffee or something?”

It’s almost six p.m., but coffee does sound good. “Uh, do you just have coffee?”

“Not usually for customers, but you look like you could use it. And Tuesday is usually a pretty dead night. Milk? Sugar?”

“Just a little milk, thanks.”

“So, what’s the therapy?”

“My mom died ten years ago today.”

“My condolences,” she says, and it sounds genuine. “You must have been pretty young.”

“Eighteen.”

She sits down next to him and hands him a mug. “I was twenty when my dad died. I got my first tattoo a week later. I thought my mom was going to disown me, which is why when she asks what I do I say I’m an artist.” She unbuttons her shirt and shrugs it off, revealing a white tank top and he tries not to stare at all the ink suddenly on display, on her shoulders and arms. It’s not full coverage, just a few on each arm and one over her left breast, but it’s still bright and surprising. “Lincoln did it for me,” she says, extending her right arm, showing him the soft skin right under the bend of her elbow. It’s a chess piece, a black knight. “We used to play a lot. He taught me when I was just a kid, he convinced me because there was a horse.”

Bellamy has to smile. “That’s nice.”

“Is there anything that reminds you of your mother?”

“Nothing good.” He sips his coffee. “She was–I didn’t realize how bad a mom she was for a long time. She worked a lot, and I know it was to take care of us, but she expected me to look after my sister, and I was–way too young for that.”

“What happened when she died?”

“I got custody, obviously. It was tough, but–she’d always been my responsibility.”

“So, maybe something for your sister,” she says, thoughtful. She pulls up the hem of her tank top to show him a small bird. “That’s for my friend Raven, and this one–” She twists around to show him another chess piece, a king this time, on her back. “That’s for my friend Wells.”

“I don’t know what I’d get for her,” he says. “God, this was stupid.”

“Not stupid, just–maybe this should be a consult, not an actual tattoo. Any ideas on location?”

“Where you’ve got the one for your dad, actually. But on my left arm.”

Clarke shifts closer, gestures for him to roll up his sleeve so she can look at his forearm. “You seem like a words kind of guy.”

“Words?”

“Yeah. Like–quotes. I’m more of a visual person, I like having images on me. But I feel like you should get some text. I can do great text.”

“Text,” he agrees, and wets his lips. “ _To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield_ ,” he says, slowly. “Would that fit there, or is it too long?”

“Tennyson, classy.” She grabs a ballpoint pen and takes his arm in her lap. “Can I show you?”

“Yeah,” he says, amused in spite of himself. This was not at all how he imagined getting a tattoo would be.

“Okay, so, obviously this is just a draft, I can draw up something better, but I’m thinking–” And then she’s off, drawing the outline of the words, small and close, in a curly script. It’s actually breath-taking, watching her trace the letters, color them in, the sure, bold strokes as if she’s known what this would look like for her whole life. Like she’s just been waiting for him to show up and ask for it.

“Holy shit, you’re good,” he says, when she pulls back. Her face is lit up with happiness, so fucking proud, and he grins back.

“I am, thanks for noticing. You might not have thought this tattoo thing all the way through, but you  _did_  come to the right place. You like it?”

“It’s perfect,” he says. “I–seriously. Can I just get it now?”

She laughs. “Just like that? You don’t want to wait for me to clean it up?”

“No, that’s–honestly if there’s any way you can make it look like fucking pen, that is exactly what I want. It’s awesome.”

“Okay, finish your coffee, make sure you still like it, and then, yeah, I’ll put it on you if you’re still sure.”

He takes a picture, texts it to Octavia with the caption,  _Tattoo I’m getting_ , and grins when she immediately replies,  _!!! it’s SO YOU nerdy and stubborn I love it_.

He shows Clarke and she grins. “So, I guess that means you’re sure?”

“Really sure.”

“Okay,” she says, stands and wipes her hands on her jeans. “I’ll give you my friend’s card, though. Laser tattoo removal, just in case you need it.”

“Before it’s even done?”

“It’s still an impulse tattoo. Come on, I’ll get you set up.”

*

Two weeks later, Bellamy’s back at Indigo Ink, running his finger over the words on his arm. He’s been doing it a lot since it stopped hurting, not quite able to believe it’s real. It’s basically his favorite thing, and he knows part of that is that it’s Clarke’s mark on his body. Which is a disconcerting way to feel about a girl he literally just met, but he’s going with it.

The guy behind the desk really  _is_  his sister’s type, giant and tattooed and mohawked. Bellamy gives him a somewhat weak smile. “Hey, is, uh, Clarke around?”

“In the back,” he says. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I just–wanted to thank her?” It feels weird, suddenly. He hadn’t thought about having to explain to someone else. “She did a tattoo for me a couple weeks ago.”

The guy--Lincoln, he assumes--just looks amused. “I’ll go see if I can find her.”

She comes out a few minutes later in a flowy top and skinny jeans with her hair around her shoulders and  _beams_  at him. He feels tension unwind in his chest; part of him had been worried she would have forgotten him.

“Hey! Bellamy, right?”

“Yeah, hi. I just–still don’t regret it.”

“Awesome. Please write a Yelp review that just says that.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I know, faint praise. Seriously, I love it.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

He clears his throat. “I was thinking about getting another one. And I owe you a coffee. I was kind of hoping I could buy you one and we could talk it over?”

“I try not to mix business with pleasure,” she says, but she’s still smiling. “Coffee and consults need to be separate.”

“But we could do both?”

Her smile kicks up a notch, and he grins back. “Yeah. We could do both.”


	31. WELLS/RAVEN Deciding Vote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I loved your fic with Wells/Raven and would love to see another, this time in an Ark AU in which they don't come to Earth and Raven is still with Finn, but she somehow keeps running into Wells all over the place... (background Bellarke is a bonus, though interpret this fic to your heart's desire!)
> 
> For [melika-elena](http://melika-elena.tumblr.com/)!

The first time Raven Reyes meets Wells Jaha, he’s with Clarke Griffin, and he says, “Hey, can you settle an argument for us?”

They’re in line waiting for rations, Raven out of her usual station because she had work to do. She’s not used to being noticed by people as well off as the two of them, and the question startles her. “What?”

“My friend here,” he says, jerking his head to Clarke like Raven doesn’t know who either of them is, “thinks that soccer is a better game than baseball.”

“It is!” says Clarke. “You know what’s always happening in soccer?  _Something_. You know what’s always happening in baseball?  _Nothing_!”

“So, can you just tell her she’s wrong? It’s two-to-one, Clarke.”

“She hasn’t said anything yet.”

Wells is looking at Raven, eager and expectant. It’s strange, talking to him like they’re friends. Raven’s never had many of those in the first place, and none of them have been anything like Wells Jaha. And she  _just met him_. 

“Uh, I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer this question,” Raven says. “I don’t know much about sports.”

“Yeah, but you trust me, right?” Wells asks, and Raven almost bristles, but he looks so open and easy, so unlike he’s saying it because he’s the Chancellor’s son. “More than her. Look at her, you can’t trust her.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Your pandering for votes is nauseating, Wells. And I’m clearly way more trustworthy than you.”

“What about it?” Wells prompts Raven. “Just follow your heart.”

“I sometimes watch basketball with my boyfriend, if we’re not too busy.”

“Starts with b, that counts for baseball,” says Wells.

“No, because they’re  _always running_ in basketball,” says Clarke. “That counts for soccer.”

Wells grins at Raven. “Thanks for your help,” he says, and then it’s her turn at the counter. She collects her rations and leaves, still seeing Wells Jaha smiling at her, like they’re sharing something special.

That night, she tells Finn, “I met the prince and princess today.”

“Yeah? How were they?”

She thinks it over. “Surprisingly normal,” she decides.

“Huh. Good to know.”

*

The next time, she’s in the market, going to grab something for Monty’s birthday. She notices Bellamy first, and she’s planning to say hi to him until she notices he’s talking to Clarke, which is disconcerting enough to throw her for a second. She and Bellamy live close to each other; he’ll do repairs on her clothing for extra rations and they sometimes eat together. She has no idea what he has to do with Clarke Griffin.

She spots Wells next to them and he catches her eye and gives her a roll of his own eyes and a jerk of his head, so she’s kind of required to go over.

“Hey, the basketball fan, right?” he says, smiling. He’s <I>always</I> smiling at her.

“I usually go by Raven.”

“I’m Wells,” he says, like she really might not know. “That’s Clarke and–” He frowns. “The guard she likes to bicker about books with.”

“Bellamy,” Raven supplies, and he looks up at the sound of his name and nods in greeting before turning his attention back to Clarke.

“What are you looking for?” Wells asks.

“Present for a friend.”

“Me too. Can I come with you?”

“Sure,” she says, surprised.

“Watching Clarke flirt is only fun for the first minute or so,” he confesses, and it takes a lot for Raven to not turn back to stare.

“She’s flirting with  _Bellamy_?” she asks.

“I guess he’s pretty hot,” Wells says, with an easy shrug. “What kind of stuff does your friend like?” he continues, before she can point out Bellamy is a broke guard whose mother got floated because she was hiding his sister under their floor and Clarke Griffin is, well, Clarke Griffin.

Bellamy better know what he’s doing.

She should maybe figure out what she’s doing too, because she spends the afternoon shopping with  _Wells Jaha_ , and it’s really pretty fun. 

*

The next time, he comes to her, actually seeks her out at work.

“Can I help you?” she asks, wary.

“You’re friends with that guard, right? Bellamy?”

“Uh, kind of. We live near each other. Go to the same parties sometimes. Both like complaining about dumb shit.”

“Clarke wants to spend more time with him,” says Wells. “But she can’t just ask him out because–I don’t know. She won’t. So, being the great friend I am, I was going to invite some people over to watch a vid. Including him. And you and your boyfriend, if you’re willing to help.”

“I thought you and her were dating, honestly,” she says.

“For about ten minutes. It didn’t work out.”

Raven nods. “What vid?” she finds herself asking.

“I don’t know yet. It’s a pretty new plan.”

“Better be something good.” She pauses, but–she likes Wells. Against all her instincts. “You should tell him to bring Octavia. If you want to get on his good side.”

She can see him struggling to place the name. Everyone has heard of Octavia Blake, but they don’t always remember why. “Octavia?” he finally asks.

“His sister.”

She takes some joy in the way his eyes widen; it’s always fun, saying Bellamy has a sister. 

“Bellamy Blake,” he says, slow. “Right.”

Raven just grins. “What time should we be there?”

*  
Vid night becomes a regular thing from there. At its core, she thinks of it as her, Wells, Bellamy, and Clarke, with other people coming and going. Finn makes it to the first few, but Raven can tell he doesn’t like it, that it makes him antsy, being around them. That he doesn’t fit. Bellamy brings Miller, another guard, who kind of knows Clarke, and Raven starts dragging Monty and Jasper, who take an instant shine to Octavia.

It feels like a social circle, like she has  _people_ , and maybe that’s why Finn doesn’t like it. He’s always been her only person.

“I still love you,” she tells him, when she gets home one night. “You don’t have to avoid them.”

“Maybe I don’t like them,” he says, and Raven doesn’t argue. But it feels like the beginning of the end.

*

By the time she and Finn break up, Wells Jaha is her closest friend. If someone had told her a year ago that either of those would happen, she would have laughed in their face.

She goes to see him because she doesn’t know where else to go. They always do vids at Clarke’s; she’s never been to his quarters before. Somehow, she isn’t even nervous.

“Hey,” he says, frowning, all worry. He’s dressed for bed, and she realizes it got late while she and Finn were fighting.

“Shit, it’s almost curfew,” she says. “I should–”

“Stay,” he says. “I have a couch. What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Finn and I broke up,” she admits.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Here, let me get you something. Tea?”

She has to smile. “Do you do this for all the mechanics who show up at your door in the middle of the night?” she asks, and realizes as she says it that he would. He absolutely would.

“I’m taking that as a yes to tea,” he says, and she lets him fuss over her.

*

That’s the first time she wakes up in Wells Jaha’s bed, because of course he insisted on taking the couch. He made her stay, and he made her take his bed. She thinks, sometimes, that he won’t be able to stay this kind, and the thought makes her burn with fury. She’s going to make sure he does.

The second time she wakes up in his bed, it’s six months later, and he’s in the bed with her with her, one arm slung around her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

“If someone told me I’d be dating the Chancellor’s son a year ago, I would have taken them to med station for a check up,” she tells him.

He smiles, presses his lips against her shoulder. “We met just about a year ago,” he says. “So I was already hoping.”


	32. CLARKE&LINCOLN You'll Make Your True Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: clarke/lincoln brotp HP au - slytherin/hufflepuff friendship, or you know whatever floats your boat
> 
> For [bgonemydear](http://bgonemydear.tumblr.com/)!

Lincoln meets Clarke Griffin on the platform for the Hogwarts Express, as he’s trying to figure out how to get to Platform 9 and ¾.

“You just walk right in,” she says, startling him out of his thoughts. She’s much smaller than he is, short and slight, with a mess of blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

“What?”

“You’re going to school, right?” she says.

“Yes. To–”

“Watch me,” she says, and strides right through the wall.

When Lincoln doesn’t follow, she sticks her head out and says, “Come  _on_.” He makes his feet move, and he goes through with no trouble. “Welcome to the wizarding world. I’m Clarke.”

Later, he’ll realize all sorts of things. That she was alone on the platform, no parents or siblings, that people nodded to her but didn’t say hi. That no one took the free seats in their compartment.

She asked him everything about himself that first day and offered almost nothing about herself.

Lincoln found out he was a wizard when he got his Hogwarts letter. He was living with his mother at the time, and she pursed her lips, said he was  _like his father after all_  and sent him to live with a man he barely remembered. They’d had an awkward few months together–his father was a decent sort,  _trying_ , but he didn’t know much about being a parent–and it had been a relief to leave for school, even a far away school that doesn’t feel real. That’s full of things he doesn’t understand.

He’s not ready to turn his nose up at a friend,  _any_  friend. And Clarke is smart and funny, happy to answer his questions. If there’s wariness around her eyes, he doesn’t mind it. It makes her feel trustworthy, somehow.

They’re nowhere near each other in line for the sorting; Clarke is a Griffin, right in the middle, and as a Wood, Lincoln will be the last one sorted in their year.

The Sorting Hat is ridiculously large on Clarke’s head, engulfing her to the neck, and it says “SLYTHERIN!” almost instantly.

“No surprise there,” the boy in front of Lincoln says to a girl. “She’s just like her mom, I bet.”

“My ma couldn’t believe Jake Griffin ever married a Slytherin. Griffin  _come from_  Gryffindor. Direct descendents. They’ve always been Gryffindors. Ma said he deserved what he got, when Abby Griffin killed him.”

“That’s  _not_  what happened. I heard–” says another boy, as Clarke walks to the Slytherin table, head held high. He can hear whispers all around; Clarke is  _famous_. The Slytherins don’t welcome her either, not really. Everyone looks a little wary of her.

Lincoln thinks about the houses as he waits. He could fit in anywhere but Slytherin, he realizes with a lurch. He’s never thought of himself as cunning or ambitious. He tends to be quiet, a little shy. Ravenclaws value learning, and he could do that. Gryffindors are brave, and Lincoln knows he can be.

But Hufflepuff seems like the best fit for the person he  _wants_  to be. He wants to be loyal and accepting. He wants to be there for the people he loves.

The hat agrees, and the rest of the Hufflepuffs welcome him with open arms. He has a place here already.

But he is  _loyal_. He knows it for sure now. So once the feast is over, he goes to find Clarke.

“Hi,” she says, looking surprised.

“How was your meal?” he asks.

Her smile is wry. “Awkward. Yours?”

“Same.”

*

Abby Griffin is in Azkaban, which doesn’t sound so bad, until he finds out that Azkaban is wizarding prison, and not just another ridiculous name for a place he hasn’t heard of.

_Loyalty_  he thinks, when he puts it together. Clarke isn’t her mother. Clarke is his best friend, and he won’t let anyone tell him her story, won’t let anyone say a bad word to him about her. 

He gets into his first fight with Bellamy Blake, a second-year Gryffindor, when Bellamy tries to tell him why he should avoid her.

“Even the other  _Slytherins_  don’t like her,” Bellamy tells him. “You ever wonder why?”

“No,” Lincoln says, and since he doesn’t know any good hexes yet, he punches Bellamy and they both get detention.

“Why don’t you ever ask about her?” Clarke asks, that Saturday. It’s just the two of them in the library; everyone else is at the Quidditch match, but Lincoln can’t help finding the game ridiculous, and Clarke tends to avoid large groups of people.

“Because you never talk about her,” he says. “But if you want to, I’ll listen.”

She drums her fingers on the table. “My parents are–were–both purebloods. My mom’s from the Clarke family,” she says, with a twist of her mouth. “They can trace the bloodline back to Salazar Slytherin. Griffins are the same with Godric Gryffindor. Everyone swore he couldn’t  _want_  to marry her. That she was using a love potion or a curse or something. But they were my parents, you know? I always thought they really loved each other.”

Lincoln doesn’t know what that’s like–his parents divorced when he was two and his father told his mother he was a wizard–but he nods anyway.

“We never saw much of my mom’s family. I thought she never saw them either. But they were doing–with another pureblood family, the Wallaces. They were doing experiments on muggles who had wizarding children. Trying to isolate the gene so they could–stop it. Get rid of muggleborns. Keep the bloodlines pure. And I guess my mother  _knew_. My father found out, reported them, and my mother killed him.” She scrubs her face. “It was–small. Less than ten people, all together. That’s why even the other Slytherins are distancing themselves. Some of them  _congratulate me_  in private. Like it’s a good thing.” She wets her lips. “They took Bellamy’s mother, she was one of the test subjects. Took her apart. You can–you shouldn’t punch him anymore. Just tell him to take it up with me if he wants to fight with someone.”

Lincoln pauses, and finally says, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know. But I don’t blame anyone for taking it out on me. Just for taking it out you.” She looks away. “I get if you don’t–if you don’t want–”

“You’re my best friend,” he tells her, and her smile is quick and bright and only a little shaky.

“You too.”

*

Once she’s started talking about her parents, she doesn’t stop. It turns out it’s still complicated and painful, even now, because it’s not really  _over_. The trial is being delayed, because the case is so strange. The Wallaces were using muggle science for their experiments, and no one in the wizard courts has very much background in it. There’s research to be done, more than usual, and it’s not until the summer after their first year that they’re ready to go to go to court. 

Clarke is staying at his house because none of her relatives want her either; Lincoln doesn’t know how it’s possible, to blame a child for that. Maybe he relates because his mother threw him out so quickly, when she realized he took after his father. He can understand.

He goes with her to court for the day of her mother’s trial, lets her cling to his hand as she listens. Her mother claims she wasn’t involved. That she knew, that she should have said something, but that she never hurt anyone, not the muggle women, not her husband. She says it under truth serum. She tells them everything she knows, willingly.

It seems like the kind of information they could have gotten much sooner, but apparently no one was giving Abigail Griffin the benefit of the doubt. Now that it’s all come out, the year she spent is Azkaban is ruled punishment enough for what she did, and she’s freed.

“I don’t even know how to go home,” Clarke admits to Lincoln, once they get the verdict. “I’ve been hating her so much, for a year. And she  _knew_. Even if she didn’t kill him, if she’d turned them in then maybe–”

Lincoln squeezes her shoulder. “You can stay here as long as you want. Whenever you want.”

“I know.”

*

He expects it to get better for her, at school, now that her mother is out of prison and cleared of any wrongdoing. She didn’t know the extent of the tests. She didn’t kill her husband.

But it’s not until their third year, when Bellamy Blake sits down next to them in the library, that it shows any signs of improvement.

“What?” Clarke asks, prickly.

“What?” he retorts. “I can’t sit here?”

“I don’t care what you do,” says Clarke, and Bellamy spreads his stuff out so that it’s intruding on Clarke’s space, deliberate. “Except that,” she says, scowling, and Bellamy just grins at her.

They don’t really talk much, but it’s a signal to everyone else, apparently, that Clarke, and by extension Lincoln, are no longer off-limits. Not that Lincoln ever was, really–Hufflepuffs are loyal, after all, and his housemates stuck by him–but he insisted on bringing Clarke with him when he went anywhere, and once everyone else realized that, he stopped being asked to parties and study sessions. Third year, the invitations start returning, and it stops being just the two of them against the world. Clarke starts taking Arithmancy and makes friends with a couple Ravenclaws, Raven and Monty, and Lincoln bonds with Monroe and Indra in Care of Magical Creatures. He was already kind of friends with Nathan Miller, one of his fellow Hufflepuffs, but Miller is friends with Bellamy too, so a week before Christmas, Miller sits down next to him and says, “You know Bellamy has a ridiculous crush on your friend, right?”

“I thought that might be it,” says Lincoln, careful.

Miller shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and shows up the next time Bellamy joins them in the library.

Out of nowhere, they have an actual social circle. Clarke doesn’t seem any more prepared for it than he is. But it’s–nice. Even if it’s more than a little disconcerting.

The Slytherins are slowest to come around, which surprises him until he realizes they haven’t seen an advantage to befriending her again yet. But Clarke’s mother gets a new job, starts getting involved in politics and socializing again, and the Slytherins drift back in to Clarke.

Or try to, anyway.

“They think now that they’re willing to talk to me again, I’ll be done with you,” she says, harsh and dismissive. “Assholes.”

Lincoln grins. “Surely it would be good for your political ambitions,” he teases.

“If you ever talk about my political ambitions again, I am going to hex you into oblivion,” she retorts, as chipper as he’s ever heard her, and Lincoln laughs.

*

“I am dying of boredom.”

Lincoln looks up as a bright, lovely girl sits down next to Bellamy. Bellamy doesn’t even look at her; Clarke is on her first official date with Lexa, a sixth-year Slytherin, and he’s pretending he’s not upset about it without much success.

“Everyone’s got their cross to bear, O.” His eyes flick to Lincoln. “You know my sister?”

Lincoln blinks, takes another look at the girl. He knew Bellamy had a sister, but she’s two years younger than Bellamy is, a fourth year and also in Gryffindor, if he remembers correctly. Bellamy hadn’t been friends with them yet, when she showed up. 

She’s also very, very pretty.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Lincoln says, smiling at her.

“You’re Lincoln, right?” asks Octavia, sizing him up. “Bell says you’re pretty badass, for a Hufflepuff.”

“I had no idea,” Lincoln says; Bellamy refuses to meet his eyes, which means it’s probably true. “You’re Octavia?”

“Yup. Do you take Care of Magical Creatures? Bell dropped it because he likes Arithmancy better, like a nerd.”

“This is why I never introduce you to my friends,” he grumbles.

“I do take it,” Lincoln says. It’s best to ignore Bellamy when he’s sulking.

Octavia lights up and comes around the table to sit next to him instead of Bellamy, and Lincoln’s heart jumps in response. “Great, can you help me out with this?”

“I’ll do my best,” says Lincoln, and tries not to be weird as Octavia leans in.

*

It’s just as well Bellamy is sulking about Clarke and Lexa; it means that he hasn’t noticed Lincoln has a crush on his little sister, who’s decided she wants to spend more time with them. The downside is that Clarke hasn’t really had time to help him out either, because she’s distracted. Very distracted, if Lincoln is honest. He still sees her, but–it’s not as often as he used to, and it hurts, a little. But Lexa is Clarke’s first girlfriend, and Lincoln figures that’s the kind of thing that can be distracting. Clarke is still his best friend; he’s not worried.

At least, he’s not until he goes to meet her in the library, and Lexa is there instead, twirling a quill in the air, the picture of purposeful nonchalance.

“She’s running late,” says Lexa. “She wanted us to spend time together.” Her eyes fix on Lincoln, her gaze intense. He’d be lying if he said he understood what Clarke sees in her, but the two of them don’t always have the same taste in women. Although she agrees that Octavia Blake is very cute. “I think she hasn’t thought it through.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve heard you excel at Care of Magical Creatures,” she says. “Herbology. Decent at Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Not much talent at wandwork, Transfiguration and Charms.”

Lincoln raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“And Clarke is  _exceptional_. It’s a shame that her–family complications kept the rest of our house from recognizing it for so long. I understand why she began spending time with the people she did. I don’t blame her.”

“Blame her,” Lincoln repeats, flat.

If Lexa realizes he’s offended, she shows no sign of it. “Why do you think the rest of the Slytherins still don’t think she’s valuable? She surrounds herself with half-bloods and muggleborns.”

“Have you told her this?”

“Not in so many words,” says Lexa. “But she knows if she wants to be successful, she needs to spend more time with her own people and less with–” Lincoln is morbidly curious to hear what term she’ll come up with for him, and even has to smile a little, in spite of himself, when she settles on, “Hufflepuffs.”

“Nathan Miller is a Hufflepuff,” Lincoln responds, stretching his legs out, even and easy. “I believe he’s at the top of the class in Transfiguration. His wandwork is exceptional. Raven Reyes is muggleborn and a Ravenclaw. Which one is more important, for Clarke’s ambitions?”

Lexa’s jaw works. “Don’t be obtuse,” she says, at last. “You know exactly–”

“Sorry I’m late,” says Clarke, and she sits down next to Lincoln, not Lexa. “Bellamy was being a dumbass. What’s up?”

Lexa’s look says that Lincoln should keep his mouth shut, and he’s sure she’d like it if he did. He knows which of them Clarke will side with. So he says, “Lexa was just telling me that I’m bad for you.”

Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up, and Lexa scowls at him, fast, before her expression evens out into the usual tranquil calm. “That’s not what I was saying.”

“It wasn’t?” Clarke has a tone of voice that Lincoln has learned means not just  _danger_ , but  _imminent disaster_. Either Lexa hasn’t heard it before or doesn’t realize exactly how unpleasant their relationship is about to become. “You didn’t decide you were tired of trying to convince me to ditch my friends and wanted to go directly to the source instead? I told you, Lincoln is my  _best friend_. You didn’t even give him a chance.”

“I merely pointed out that your fellow Slytherins could–”

“No,” says Clarke. “Any Slytherins who can’t put up with Lincoln and Bellamy and Raven and everyone else I care about–they’re the ones who aren’t welcome. And that includes you.”

“I’m only trying to make sure you reach your potential–”

“I’ll take care of my own potential. But if you’d like to see exactly what I’m capable of–” Her smile is dark and hard. “Tell Lincoln he’s not good for me again. Go ahead.”

Lexa’s jaw works again, and Lincoln thinks she might do it, just out of morbid curiosity, but she finally shakes her head and stands. “Don’t come to me when you realize what you’ve given up,” she finally says, and Clarke’s smile is sweet.

“Believe me, I won’t.”

“Sometimes I think I should marry you,” Lincoln remarks, when they’re alone again.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees, leaning into his side. “But then who’s going to marry Bellamy’s hot sister?”

Lincoln rests his cheek on her hair. “I’m sorry about Lexa,” he says.

“It’s okay. I knew it wouldn’t last. Not with–she has a very narrow view of what it means to be successful.”

They sit in silence for a minute, and then Lincoln asks, “Did the Sorting Hat ask you where you wanted to go?”

“No. I told it Slytherin before it could say anything else, and it agreed.”

“Why?”

“Because ambition and cunning are  _good_ , and I’m tired of people acting like they aren’t. It’s not the same as being selfish and ruthless. Or, you know, a bigoted asshole.”

“And you never regret not being in Gryffindor?”

Clarke snorts. “Can you imagine me and Bellamy sharing a common room? There would have been bloodshed.”

“Ravenclaw, then.”

She closes her eyes, lets out a long breath, like she’s settling in to sleep. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“Good,” says Lincoln. “Me too.”


	33. For Spitesies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 1. Bellarke + "we're friends. Friends who give each other orgasms." And 2. Bellamy is fingering clarke under a table during a lecture class or a dinner with their friends around
> 
> For [n0tew0rthy](http://n0tew0rthy.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy and Clarke have planned Christmas together for their friends for the last three years. It shouldn’t be a big deal to do it again. They’re practically experts at this point. They know the drill. They’re an excellent team.

But they’ve never been sleeping together before.

Not that Bellamy objects to that part. That part is awesome. Sleeping with Clarke is close to the best decision he’s ever made. It’s just unfortunately coupled with what’s definitely the  _worst_  decision he’s ever made, which is not telling her that he’s in love with her.

(He’s not sure where being in love with her falls, on the bad decision scale. He thinks it’s probably a wash.)

Still, they’ve managed to be normal friends in the last three months of having awesome sex on the side, so why should this be a problem?

“Because it’s Christmas,” Miller says. Miller was actually concerned enough about it to bring it up, which is weird. “I don’t want you to fuck up Christmas, man.”

“Please tell me you didn’t suddenly grow a Christmas spirit,” he says, shooting him a glare.

“Fuck you, I am like 95% Christmas spirit. And it’s my first Christmas with my boyfriend, who is, like, the human incarnation of cotton candy, and he loves Christmas. If you screw up Christmas for you and Clarke, you screw up Christmas for everyone.”

“We’re  _friends_ ,” Bellamy says. “Like always. Just now we’re, uh–”

“You don’t want to say friends with benefits.”

“We’re friends who give each other orgasms.”

Miller rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s so much of an improvement. I’m just saying, you’re sleeping with her, you’re in love with her, it’s Christmas, you’re going to end up with some sort of awkward confession that totally ruins all of our lives.”

Bellamy swallows, hard. “So, uh. You think if I tell her, she’ll be pissed?”

“God, fuck, I don’t know,” says Miller, rubbing his face. “I have no idea what’s up with you guys. I’m just begging you to not make Christmas weird, okay? You don’t have to get me anything else. No presents. Just be normal.”

“I’ve been being normal,” he mutters darkly. And he has been. If anything, he’s disappointed that sleeping with Clarke  _hasn’t_  more radically altered his life. His life is largely the same, just sometimes after he and Clarke hang out, she’ll blow him or he’ll eat her out or they’ll fuck on his couch. And then she’ll go home, and he’ll still be single and in love with his best friend.

He thought sexual frustration was as bad as it got, but apparently he really has a lot of feelings, because emotional frustration  _sucks_.

“I’m getting you a kick to the head for Christmas,” Miller says.

“Awesome. Just like last year.”

*

“Miller thinks we’re going to ruin Christmas,” Bellamy tells Clarke. They’re shopping for supplies; Octavia is hosting because she and Lincoln have a real-person house, but she draws the line at cooking and buying groceries. As far as she’s concerned, the extent of her responsibilities is allowing people into her home, and that is already a great burden.

They have a really good system worked out.

“He knows we’re the ones who make Christmas happen, right?” She grabs a box of booze-filled chocolates. “If we didn’t do this stuff, everyone would be scrambling to find a place that delivers pizza on Christmas.”

“He thinks we’re going to lose the ability to function because we’re sleeping together,” he says.

Clarke pauses at that. “You told Miller we’re sleeping together?”

“You told Octavia.”

“Yeah, because I felt guilty not telling her.”

It’s not the direction he expected the conversation to take, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry?” he tries.

She seems to recover from whatever weirdness there was and bumps her shoulder against his. “Just surprised me. I’m picturing you and Miller having a slumber party and doing each others’ hair. Or, you know, lack of hair, in Miller’s case.”

“I trim his beard for him.”

“That was my next guess. Do we want to try to make a turkey this year?”

“I don’t.”

“I’m getting a boneless leg of lamb, that’s classy. Why does Miller think we can’t sleep together and plan a holiday? People do that all the time.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say those people are married, or at least in relationships, but he refrains. “That’s basically what I told him, but with more casual profanity.”

Clarke snorts. “It’s cute the way you guys can’t communicate without the word  _fuck_.”

“It’s basically punctuation,” Bellamy protests.

“I know.” She surprises him with a peck on the cheek. It’s the kind of thing that’s not actually  _new_ –she’s been showing him casual affection like that forever–but still feels weightier because they’re having sex now. “Are you baking something for dessert? What are you baking?”

“I’ll do a cake,” he says, and just like that, they’re back to normal. Conversation over.

It’s cool, except for when it’s not.

*

What Bellamy really should have remembered is that Clarke is competitive. Or spiteful. In a fairly whimsical way, but still. She hates being told she can’t do things. Reverse psychology? Works  _really well_  on Clarke. It’s hilarious, most of the time.

But Bellamy hadn’t really thought through telling her that Miller thinks their having sex is going to ruin Christmas, because, of course, it means she has to make sure it doesn’t. Which is, in and of itself, fine. He doesn’t want them to ruin Christmas either. Everyone is rooting for Christmas here.

The problem is that Clarke seems to feel that it’s not really winning unless their having sex has a chance to destroy Christmas. If it doesn’t, then there’s no suspense. It’s not a fair fight.

At least, that’s how he interprets it when she drags him into Octavia’s cupboard to “look for serving platters” two days before Christmas and blows him.

“Holy shit what,” he manages, when he’s recovered enough to form single-syllable words.

“What?” He just sort of gestures at himself and she grins, tucks him back into his boxers, and zips up his fly. “I wanted to blow you.”

“Our friends are  _right there_.”

“And we’re right here,” she says, pecking him on the jaw. “Come on, it was fun, right?”

“Oh my god, you want to prove Miller wrong,” he realizes all at once. “Jesus, Clarke.”

“Not just Miller. Octavia, Lincoln, and Wells also gave me lectures.”

“Wells knows? Are we even keeping this secret?”

“Not that hard,” Clarke says. “I’m just saying, it’s ridiculous and unfair. What do they think is going to happen?”

“Yeah, what  _do_  they think?” he asks, genuinely curious. He knows why Miller is worried, but does Wells think Clarke has feelings? Because that would be awesome.

Clarke just pats him on the chest. “Grab that giant silver tray, okay?”

*

Bellamy is, of course, pretty competitive himself. It’s part of why he and Clarke weren’t friends to begin with, and then became awesome friends, and then he fell in with her. It’s something they have in common.

So he can’t just stand idly by and let her be the only one ambushing him with sex.

It is, he’s not going to lie, the worst idea of all time. They’re basically playing sex chicken to prove that they aren’t going to screw up the holiday, and if any of their friends catch them, it will definitely screw up the holiday.

But it’s kind of fun, too. Bellamy fucks Clarke in the kitchen while she’s making breakfast, and she gives him a handjob under a blanket during a movie. He sneaks into her room and eats her out, and she refuses to let him leave until he’s fucked her again.

“I’ve gotta admit, you guys are pretty functional,” Miller says, grudging.

“We’re the best,” Bellamy agrees, and gets her off during Christmas dinner with his fingers.  _Twice_.

He’s pretty sure that means he wins, because he doesn’t know what she can possibly do to top it, but then she climbs into his bed that night, buries her face against his neck. “I can’t do this anymore,” she says, muffled.

“I figured it was pretty much over,” he says. “But I promise to never finger-fuck you in public again. Scout’s honor.”

“Not that,” she says, and his heart sinks into the mattress, onto the floor. His heart goes as low as it’s possible to go.

“Which?” he manages, mouth dry.

“I can’t just–” She huffs. “I’m so crazy about you, I can’t pretend this is all I want. I have so much stupid  _fun_  and I want to kiss you and tell you I love you and do all the sappy shit too. Sex is awesome, but it’s not enough. And I know I’m ruining Christmas, you don’t have to tell me. I didn’t think this through.”

“It’s after midnight,” he says, like this is the relevant thing. “So it’s Boxing Day now, and, uh. Also I love you too. Please, please bring on the sappy shit.”

She looks up at him, wide-eyed, and he smiles a little, leans down to press his mouth to hers. She must have just brushed her teeth, because she tastes minty, cool and fresh, and she presses all up against him at once, kissing back without hesitation.

“And Miller thought I was gonna say it first and fuck up everything,” he murmurs, tugging her on top of him.

“Congrats on your restraint,” she says, her smile huge. “Miller’s a dumbass. We’re the best at Christmas. I bet we had way more orgasms than he did.”

Bellamy laughs, leans back in, doesn’t know how to stop kissing her. “The most orgasms,” he agrees. “Best ever.”


	34. World Enough, and Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellamy/Clarke, Vestals
> 
> For [paxpinnae](http://paxpinnae.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy sees the Vestal for the first time when he’s fifteen, at a festival. He doesn’t know why, exactly, she catches his attention–he thinks it’s her eyes, blue and fierce, for all she can’t be much older than Octavia. Maybe it’s just that she reminds him of Octavia a little, so when she looks at him, he smiles at her and waves, and grins when it breaks her concentration. She scowls, just for a second, involuntary, and then regains her composure. But Bellamy sees it, and he remembers. She’s _irritable_. It’s cute.

He remembers her, year in and year out, watches her at festivals and games, looks for her whenever the Vestals are. If he gets her attention, he’ll smile at her, and she starts smiling back. Sometimes, when he finds her in the crowd, she’ll already be looking at him, and she’ll smile first. It’s not friendship, but it’s a companionable sort of awareness.

He’s twenty when they actually speak, and it’s strange, after so long of just exchanging glances. He finds himself jostled through the crowd at the games until he’s by the Vestals, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s never spoken to this girl. He doesn’t know her name, even. He just sees her sometimes, and smiles. He shouldn’t talk to her. She’s not like him.

But she’s the one who jerks her head, and he slides past the other Vestals so he’s close enough, so she can lean forward and say, “Hello.”

“Hi,” he says.

“I was wondering if you’d ever come over.”

“I didn’t want to ruin what we had going.”

Her mouth quirks into a smile. “Do you often ruin your relationships by speaking?” she asks.

“All the time.”

“Then maybe I shouldn’t have said hello.” She tucks her hair back behind her ear. “My name is Clarke.”

“Clarke,” he says, although he’s sure it’s rude. She must have a title he’s supposed to use. He knows she does. But–she feels like his friend. And she doesn’t seem to mind. “I’m Bellamy.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says.

“I didn’t think I was supposed to meet Vestals.”

“We’re allowed to meet as many people as we’d like,” Clarke says, prim. “We just have restrictions on other things.” He chokes a little, and she looks triumphant. “See? Meeting us is just fine.”

He grins at her. “I’ll try to meet you more often, then.”

From then on, he makes sure to find his way to the Vestals when they’re out in public. He never stays long, doesn’t talk to her very much. It still feels improper. Bellamy is poor and inconsequential, and every time he speaks with Clarke he has to ask himself what he’s _doing_ , really.

Octavia asks him too.

“Were you talking to your Vestal again?”

“I was bored waiting for the races to start.”

“You know she’s a Vestal Virgin, don’t you?”

“Really? That explains the outfit.”

“Bell, I’m being serious. What are you hoping to get out of this?”

“Friendship. A high-ranked friendship, even. She’s a good person to be close to.”

It’s all true, but he knows the question his sister is really asking, because he asks it himself too.

“And what did you discuss today?” she asks.

“The usual,” says Bellamy. “She asked what I was teaching this week, I told her.”

Bellamy works as a tutor for a family much better off than his own, and he enjoys it, for the most part. He’s lucky to be educated himself, had to scrape for every bit of knowledge, and as a tutor, he has access to more material to educate himself. He’s even written a few things of his own, and they’ve been well received.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Octavia says.

“With the Vestal specifically, or my whole life?”

“Just the Vestal. I don’t have high hopes that you’ll _never_ be stupid.”

“Thanks, O.”

When Bellamy is twenty-four and Clarke is nineteen, one of the other Vestals dies, and Clarke comes to his home. It’s embarrassing, her knowing where he lives, seeing his small, messy dwelling. But he can barely even process that through the shock of seeing her.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“You have a sister,” she says. She’s met Octavia a few times, so of course she knows, but it doesn’t explain anything.

“Yes. And?”

“Does she want to be a Vestal?”

He blinks. “She’s too old.”

“There was an accident.” She swallows, and her composure falters; Bellamy almost reaches for her, but he remembers himself in time. “Flavia passed away. Your sister is eighteen, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, but–you must have better candidates.”

“They have other candidates. I asked if I could suggest one.”

“Why her?”

“I think she’d be good for us. You’ve told me she’s independent and you despair of her,” she adds, flashing him a smile. “If she’s a Vestal, she’ll be fine.”

He swallows. It would probably be good for Octavia, but–she’d be a Vestal. She’s his favorite person, and he’d see so much less of her. He already sees too little of his other favorite Vestal.

“I’ll ask her,” he says. “How long would she have to serve?”

“Twenty more years,” Clarke says, looking away. “She had only just finished her time as a servant.”

Clarke has seventeen years left as a Vestal. Not that he’s counting. Not that it matters. He just doesn’t know how to stop knowing it.

“Let’s go ask her,” he says, but he already knows her answer too.

It is good for her, of course. Being a Vestal is far beyond anything Octavia could have hoped for. She’ll be taken care of for the rest of her life in a way he never could have provided. And he’s grateful, and he’s happy for her.

But it is lonely, too. He always had his sister, and now he’s alone. He sees her, and he gets to see more of Clarke, but–sometimes he wishes he’d said no. That he’d just told Clarke Octavia couldn’t join.

He finds other things to do instead. He begins to make a name for himself as an orator. There’s even interest in his writing a history of his own, which is gratifying, for someone of his station.

“Of course there is,” says Clarke, when he mentions it to her. She’s taken to walking the city in the afternoons, and there’s nothing preventing him walking with her. They happen to be going the same way at the same time. Most afternoons. By chance. “I keep telling you, you’re an excellent writer.”

“I know that without your telling me,” he says, but he is gratified. Clarke is well-read and intelligent, and he trusts her opinion. He’s been showing her what he’s working on, and she always returns it with countless annotations, which is even better than nothing but effusive praise. When he finally gets around to sharing with other people, his work will be the better for her help. “But I wasn’t expecting to gain much of a reputation for myself.”

A smile plays around her lips. “Next stop fame and fortune, then?”

“Government, probably. I might try to be–a statesman. I don’t know.”

“Ambitious.”

He bites his lip, looks down at her. She’s twenty-four, and she’s lovely. His favorite person in the world, more days than not.

She’ll be in service for twelve more years.

“I need to make a name for myself,” he agrees.

She doesn’t ask why, and he hopes she already knows. She should know. It’s a great honor, marrying a former Vestal. The Pontifex Maximus makes the decision, and even if a Vestal had her own preferences, if her choice was just–

If she’d wanted to marry someone who was no one, a poor tutor of no account, it probably would be too much of a scandal to be allowed. But he has twelve years to get an account. It should be enough time.

When he’s forty-one, Bellamy is a respected scholar, a statesman, a famous orator. He is, famously, not married, despite having a number of offers he was told he’d be a fool to pass up. There are a few rumors that he’s promised to someone, but of course, he isn’t. Not until she’s released from her vows.

“A ten-year-old girl scowls at you and you give up _twenty-six years of your life_ waiting for her,” Clarke says. She did, at least, kiss him first. Very, very thoroughly. 

Bellamy tugs her closer and kisses her again. “I didn’t give them up,” he says. “They’ve been very productive.” His mouth traces her jaw, her neck, but he keeps coming back to her lips. He’s been thinking of this for so long, it still doesn’t seem quite real.

“Productive,” she teases, tangling her hands in his hair and tugging him closer.

“You know we aren’t married yet, don’t you?” he says, as if he’s not two seconds away from stripping her clothes off. They won’t be married for another week. There are ceremonies of some kind. He finds it hard to care. She’s not Vesta’s anymore, which means she’s _his_.

She pushes him down, grinning. “I know. But I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?”

“More than long enough,” he says, and pulls her against him.

He would have waited forever, if he’s honest. But he’s much happier not having to.


	35. No Jury in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke for "which part of your OTP wakes the other up in the middle of the night to ask a question and which one hits them with a pillow?"
> 
> For [mego42](http://mego42.tumblr.com/)!

If you’d asked Clarke if she wanted to share a bed with Bellamy Blake, she would have said—

Well, scratch that, actually. It would really depend on a lot of factors, including who was asking and what the context was. Broadly speaking, Clarke is in favor of sharing beds with Bellamy Blake. Especially if he’s the one asking because he wants to date her. Clarke would be totally down with that.

Instead, Octavia is asking, because a pipe burst and her and Lincoln’s guest room is no longer habitable.

“Do you mind?” Octavia asks, sounding guilty. “I can make him and Lincoln share if you’re uncomfortable.”

Clarke has known Octavia since their freshman year of college. Sharing a bed with her would be very normal. Not awkward at all. Octavia is, obviously, a very beautiful woman and there were times in college when Clarke might have prayed she was into girls, if she was religious and it was one of the religions whose God was okay with same-sex couples. But they’ve known each other for five years now, and Octavia and Lincoln have been married for one. So while Clarke could share a bed with her and feel no discomfort, she’d feel bad for making her do that and taking her away from her husband.

Especially because, again, she does _want_ to sleep with Bellamy. This just wasn’t how she saw it happening. She’d sort of assumed it would be a drunken hookup, if it happened, and if she played her cards right and acted like they were a thing after, Bellamy would be to awkward and embarrassed to correct her, and they’d end up dating by default.

As plans for winning over your crush went, it was not great. But at least it was a plan.

“No, it’s fine,” she tells Octavia. “I don’t mind.”

“Great! Now can you tell him that? He’s insisting he’ll sleep on the couch, and you know that thing is a piece of shit. He’ll throw out his back or something.”

Which is how Clarke ends up in the awkward position of not only having to sleep with Bellamy, but having to talk him into sleeping with her.

“Octavia says I have cooties,” she says, sitting down next to him.

“Shit. Do you need to go into quarantine? That sounds serious. We don’t want an outbreak right before Christmas.”

She snorts. “You tell me. She found out about the cooties from you.”

“That does sound like something I’d say. She might have played you on this one, Clarke.”

“Well, you’re the one who won’t sleep with me.”

“Ohhh,” he says, comprehension dawning. “You aren’t, uh, offended, are you? You had a long flight, I figure you need a good night’s sleep more than I do.”

“Offended, no. Think you’re a dumbass, yes.”

“So, business as normal?”

“Bellamy.”

“What?”

“It’s a big bed. We can share it. I don’t bite and I don’t have cooties.”

“I do.”

“Then I probably do too. We see each other enough.”

That much is certainly true; they’re both living in New York, fairly close to each other. The only reason he can use the _you had a long flight_ excuse is that he came down yesterday and is already recovered.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he finally says, and her smile is genuine and only a little patronizing.

“You won’t. Don’t be an idiot.”

He snorts. “Well, when you put it like that.”

So now here she is, dressed in her suddenly too-revealing pajamas, looking at the bed with Bellamy.

“Do you have a side preference?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“So,” he says, and sort of waves his hand.

“So?”

“Go ahead.”

She thinks about arguing, but they’d be here all night, so she climbs into the right side of the bed and curls toward the wall, to give him—privacy. Or something. In an attempt to make it as non-awkward as possible.

Bellamy turns off the light and then slides in next to her, close enough she can feel a little heat coming off his back, but not _close_.

“Night,” she says.

“Night.”

She’s most of the way to sleep when he says, “Do I need to turn the radiator down?”

“What?” she tries to ask. It comes out more like _whu_.

“Are you hot?”

“So hot. Like the hottest.”

He snorts. “Thanks, helpful.”

“Just go to sleep,” she says, and he seems to.

Then it’s, “Did you know cheetahs can’t fully retract their claws?”

“Did you know I’m strong enough to smother you with my pillow?”

“They use them for traction when they run.”

“I don’t actually know if I am strong enough, but I’m willing to find out.”

The next night is even worse.

“I think he’s trying to get me to kick him out of bed,” she tells Octavia. It’s Christmas Eve, and Clarke learned more about the history of irrigation than she ever wanted to in the middle of the night. It would have been kind of interesting, at a normal hour. “To prove we can’t share or something.”

“He is a dumbass,” says Octavia, fond. “But that’s a lot even for him.”

“Lucky me,” Clarke mutters.

“It’s too cold, right?” he asks that night, when Clarke is actually _asleep_. She turns over, hits him with her pillow, puts it back under her head, and wraps her arms around him.

“There. Now it’s warm.”

He doesn’t respond, and Clarke takes advantage of the situation to take in his warmth, his smell, the brush of his hair against her cheek. If she were smart, his inability to shut up and let her sleep would have helped her get over her crush, but some irrational part of her thinks it’s cute.

She’s so far gone.

“This isn’t how this was supposed to work,” Bellamy says, and Clarke tightens her arms.

“I can hit you more. And harder.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Yeah, I always ask people questions when they’re asleep.”

“It was a test. I thought you wouldn’t say anything.”

“And instead, I’m going to murder you.”

He actually laughs at that, turns over so he can wrap his arms around her as well. He’s very, very warm. He cannot possibly be cold. Clarke is burning up. “I was trying to talk about boring stuff until I stopped wanting to do this.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “That’s a _terrible plan_. Jesus. That’s the worst plan ever.”

“Thanks for your support.” His nose brushes her hair. “I did try to take the couch. So I wouldn’t be your friend’s creepy brother trying to hit on you in bed.”

“If you’d just hit on me out of bed, we could have been making out. Instead of me trying to smother you.”

“You never actually tried.” There’s another long pause, but Clarke doesn’t even try to go back to sleep. She’s wired now, every nerve on edge. “So, do you want to make out?” he asks, and she laughs, rolls onto her back, pulling him on top of her, and tugs his mouth to hers.

The next time they share a bed, they’ve been dating for two weeks, and they have a lot of truly awesome sex first. Clarke is half asleep on his chest, warm and sated and happy, when he murmurs, “So, I never finished telling you about irrigation in Ancient Egypt,” and she hits him with the pillow again.


	36. Have Opinions, Will Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: literally just any Bellarke fake-dating would make me super happy.
> 
> For [minimallyeschew](http://minimallyeschew.tumblr.com/)!

It starts out as a joke. Not even a joke, really; Octavia just finds some post about a guy who went on Craigslist and offered his services as an obnoxious boyfriend for people looking to piss their families off on Thanksgiving, and she forwards it to him with the message “is this u.” He replies with a middle finger emoji, but, honestly, it sounds kind of fun. Octavia is doing Christmas with her boyfriend this year, and Miller is going home, so Bellamy is going to be pretty much alone. It doesn’t bother him; he doesn’t care much about the day, specifically, and he’ll do plenty of celebrating at non-Christmas times.

But he’s not doing anything else for the holidays, and the ad is hilarious, so he figures he might as well throw one up and see if he gets any bites. Maybe someone wants to piss off their conservative relatives. He could totally piss off asshole relatives, and maybe get some free food. So he writes up a quick blurb about how he’s a very liberal half-Filipino high-school teacher who is willing to be either a total boorish asshole or just a well-informed interlocutor for anyone who wants to alienate conservative family members at holiday parties. Worst case scenario, he’ll just gets some very weird spam.

But it’s only a day before he gets an email from clgriffin@gmail.com asking if he’s for real.

**From** : bblake@arkhs.org  
 **To** : clgriffin@gmail.com  
 **Subject** : craigslist scam?  
Yes, I’m for real. You can look me up on the Ark HS website, I’m a real person. I teach history. My sister is out of town for the holidays, so I’m going to be bored and I hate cooking. I can provide email addresses of friends or selfies or whatever you want for proof that I’m really who I say I am.

What are you looking for in a date to piss off your family? Or were you just curious if this was a real thing?

  
**From** : clgriffin@gmail.com  
 **To** : bblake@arkhs.org  
 **Subject** : craigslist scam?  
Oh, wow. You really are real. My friend works at Ark and not only does he know you, he’s apparently dating your sister? So I guess now your sister might find out you’re doing this, sorry. I just figured I’d ask Lincoln if this was something you’d do or if someone was stealing your identity, but I guess in retrospect I should have realized this might be a weird thing for people to find out about.

My mom is making me go to the holiday benefit at the hospital where she works because I haven’t been since my dad died and people are starting to think it reflects poorly on her. I hate going to those and want to make sure I’m never invited back. I hadn’t really thought of hiring someone to fake date, but I had a really angry girlfriend up until last month and I figured she’d piss people off all on her own. But now I’m single and want some backup.  
  


**From** : bblake@arkhs.org  
 **To** : clgriffin@gmail.com  
 **Subject** : craigslist scam?  
It was my sister’s idea, don’t worry about it. Or, well, she sent me an article that gave me the idea, so close enough. Do you want to get coffee or something and figure out if this is a good idea? This is my first time offering to be an asshole on craigslist, I usually just do it on an amateur level.

  
Which is how he ends up meeting Clarke Griffin at the coffee shop around the corner from his apartment. Octavia texted him _what is wrong with you_ as soon as she heard, which he ignored, mostly because he thinks there’s too much wrong with him to really give a comprehensive response via text. Also, he’s going to get free food and help out some girl who knows Lincoln, so that’s good, right? Lincoln is cool, his friends are probably cool. And a hospital benefit has got to be pretty swanky.

She sent a picture, so she’s easy to find, already at a table waiting for him wearing a black coat and a white hat, with her fingers wrapped around a giant mug of coffee.

She’s pretty, which doesn’t really matter, but it’s impossible not to notice. She looks like the kind of girl who goes to fancy hospital benefits; it’s easy to imagine her in a fancy dress with a glass of champagne, charming people. Then she catches his eye and smirks and it’s even easier to imagine her with hard liquor, raising hell.

“Bellamy, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, hi. Let me just–” He jerks his head toward the counter, and she nods, still smiling. He doesn’t know why he feels vaguely unnerved, considering nothing surprising has even happened, but–it’s somehow not what he expected.

When he gets back with his own coffee, she’s lost the coat and hat and she’s playing with her phone, but she puts it down and gives him a pleasant smile. “So, you’re Lincoln’s girlfriend’s brother.”

“And Lincoln’s coworker, yeah. How do you know him?”

“We were in the same Masters program,” she says. “Arts Education.”

“What do you do?”

“Middle school teacher.”

“Jesus, better you than me,” he says, and regrets it for a second, but she laughs.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” She tilts her head, considering. “So, seriously, how do you get on Craigslist offering to be a terrible date?”

Bellamy explains about the article Octavia sent, his lack of Christmas plans, and his love of free food and arguing with douchebags, and she looks amused, maybe even a little charmed. She’s _so_ fucking pretty.

“How did you get on Craigslist looking for a terrible date?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I didn’t, actually. My friend Raven found it and emailed it to me because I was complaining about going to this thing alone. And before you ask, _she_ found it because she runs a tumblr that just posts weird Craigslist shit, so she’s always on there looking for stuff.”

“Did I make it on there?”

“You did.”

“Awesome.”

“Have you gotten any other emails?”

“A couple, yeah. I’ve got a Christmas party in three days where I’m supposed to be a terrible, asshole boyfriend because this girl thinks it’ll make her office crush make a move on her.”

“That doesn’t seem like a great plan,” says Clarke.

“It’s hers, not mine,” he says. “Again, free food. I’ll go with it. What do you want me to do? Pick fights with board members? Hit on your mom?”

She bites her lip, like she’s maybe embarrassed. “Honestly, I think you can probably just be yourself, if you don’t mind. I’m pretty sure they’ll piss you off enough to pick fights with them without you having to do anything special. I really just need someone cool to hang out with for company.”

He feels himself blush a little, which is wildly embarrassing. “So, you just want me to pretend to be your regular boyfriend? Not your embarrassing, overly combative boyfriend?”

“Oh, you’re definitely going to be overly combative,” she says, bright. “But I’m guessing you won’t have to put any special effort into it. But if that’s, um–you can do an act if you want. I guess this is kind of like, I don’t know. We’re kind of friends, right? Lincoln’s awesome, your sister’s awesome, you must be awesome too.”

“Yeah, no,” he says. “I don’t mind. Just tell me when and where.”

*

“Oh, um,” says Clarke, as they’re walking to the hospital. “I did come up with one thing, if you’re willing.”

“Hm?”

“My mom _hates_ PDA. Like hates it. She thinks it’s, you know, inappropriate and classless and crass. So, um–how do you feel about making out?”

He chokes on a breath. “Uh, does anyone not like making out?” he asks. “Making out is awesome.” He wets his lips. “Just whenever I feel like?”

“Honestly, as much as you’re willing to touch me would be great. If you’re not arguing with someone, be, like–hugging or nuzzling or kissing.”

“You sure?”

It’s hard to tell with the dark and the cold, but he thinks she’s a little pink. “If you don’t mind. Not, like–you’re cute, it won’t be a hardship.”

“Thanks,” he says, feeling stupidly smug. He _knows_ he’s cute, it’s not news. But he didn’t know she thought so. And he gets to touch her the whole time.

She sheds her coat once they get inside, and she’s wearing a killer red dress. He cleans up pretty well, and he slides his arm around her as soon as their stuff is checked, and presses a kiss to his temple. “Like this?” he murmurs.

“Perfect,” she says. “Showtime.”

He gets into a fight about healthcare reform before they’ve even gotten drinks, without even _trying_ ; it’s just really hard to talk to doctors without thinking about how shitty his childhood was and how long he went without insurance because he couldn’t afford it, and Clarke is already fucking _beaming_ like this is the best night of her life.

“I’m going to introduce you to so many people,” she says. “We’re probably going to get into a fistfight.” She flicks her eyes to him. “Can I make out with you? I’m totally going to want to make out with you.”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, mouth going dry. “Pretty much whenever you want is fine with me.”

They grab drinks, fight with a guy with terrible hair about immigration, which is basically amazing, and then she drags him in for a sloppy kiss, which is even better until she murmurs, “That’s my mom,” against his mouth. “Make it good.” So he wraps his arms around her and gropes her ass a little, for good measure.

Even with how over the top it is, he almost forgets what they’re doing, because he’s making out with a hot girl he kind of actually likes. Luckily, someone clears their throat nearby before he can get too carried away, and when he pulls back, there’s an older woman frowning at them.

“Oh, hi, Mom!” says Clarke. “Sorry, Bellamy was totally crushing stupid republican ideology, it’s a real turn-on. What’s up?”

Clarke’s mother’s jaw works. “I thought you had a girlfriend. Lexa?”

“Oh, yeah, we broke up. This is Bellamy, I met him on the internet.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bellamy says, offering his hand. “I haven’t really heard that much about you, but it was all awkward.”

“I know you were reluctant to come,” Clarke’s mother starts, and Clarke snorts.

“I told you I hated these, I’ve always hated these, I just came to them when Dad was alive because he hated them too and needed company. But you don’t want me here. Believe me.”

“If you’re going to be immature about this–”

“Yup,” Clarke says. “I am.”

Bellamy wraps his arms around her waist and rests his chin on her shoulder. “So, you’re a doctor, right?” he asks her mother. “How shitty is healthcare in our country? If your answer isn’t super shitty, we’re going to have problems.”

Clarke beams at him. “I’m so glad we came.”

*

They manage to stay for almost an hour before Clarke drags him out, her mouth firmly attached to his.

“I don’t think this was in my ad,” he says, finding his jacket and pressing her up against the wall of the coat check for another long, hot kiss.

“Nope,” Clarke agrees.

“I’m never going to be able to come back to this hospital again, am I?”

“There are other hospitals,” she says. “How many more Christmas dates do you have?”

“Two. Why?”

“Need to take you to dinner. A movie. Actual dates.”

“That wasn’t in the ad either.”

“So you don’t want to?”

He nips her neck. “I’m just saying, I’m a hot commodity. Lots of girls are looking for total assholes who will piss of their families. I’ve got options.”

“Mm,” she agrees. “Are they going to buy you dinner? Do they want to make out with you in public?”

He flags down a taxi and tugs her in after him, giving the driver his address and squeezing Clarke’s hand. “I’m free tomorrow night. I’ll even throw in yelling at anyone in the restaurant who’s a dick to the waiter, free of charge.”

Clarke grins and snuggles against his side. “It’s a date.”


	37. Private Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Clarke/Bellamy - burlesque show
> 
> For [ah-blah](http://ah-blah.tumblr.com/)!

“Yeah, there’s one tonight and one tomorrow,” Clarke is saying as Bellamy unlocks her and Octavia’s apartment. The first year or so, he’d knock first, but their place is conveniently located between his two jobs, so they just gave him a key and told him to stop in whenever. It’s nice; going all the way home in his limited downtime sucked, and now he can just hang out on the couch and flirt with Clarke if she’s around. It’s great.

“I think we’ll come tomorrow,” O says. “Nine, right?”

“Yeah,” says Clarke. “But you don’t have to.”

“Of course we’re coming, we come to all your shows.”

Bellamy frowns. Clarke works in retail and is an actor on the side, and she usually has some project or another going, but she usually mentions them to him. She hasn’t said a word about anything recently, and he’s seen her almost every day this week. In retrospect, she hasn’t stopped by to visit at the bar much, but she’s busy a lot. It happens. 

“Yeah, but—“ she starts, and clams up as soon as Bellamy walks in. Frankly, it kind of hurts; he and Clarke had a rocky start, but they’re friends these days, good friends. To say nothing of the flirting thing, which she’d seemed fine with. Seemed to be reciprocating, even. He didn’t think she’d hide stuff from him.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at Clarke. “I brought groceries.”

She’s slightly pink. “Thanks. It’s the least you can do when you eat us out of house and home.”

“Neither of you can cook,” he points out. “If I wasn’t here you would have starved to death.” He glances at O, who’s not making eye contact with him. “Seriously, guys.”

“Oh, oops, Lincoln is calling, gotta go!” O says, like this is a valid and believable excuse and not the obvious lie that it is.

Clarke comes over to help him with the groceries. “How was work?”

“Fine. Do you have a show tonight?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a big deal or anything.”

“You must have been in rehearsals for a while.” He looks at her sidelong. “I’m not—you don’t have to tell me, I just don’t get why you wouldn’t. I’m off tonight, I’d go. I love going to your shows.”

Clarke worries her lip, looking down at the carton of eggs she’s putting away. “It’s not really–it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?”

“It’s, uh—burlesque,” she says. “Octavia is insisting she has to come to be supportive, but I haven’t really been spreading the word. If my mother found out she’d probably, you know.” She pauses. “I don’t even know, honestly. She’d probably think I was stripping. Which, okay, I kind of am, but it’s not _just_  stripping. It’s actually really cool. There’s a storyline and characters and stuff. By queer ladies for–everyone, but especially queer ladies. But it’s weird to tell people to come watch me be mostly naked.”

“Yeah, obviously, that makes sense,” says Bellamy, on autopilot. It _does_ make sense, really. He totally gets it. But he’s mostly distracted trying to imagine what the show looks like, what she’s doing in it. He absolutely wants to come watch her be mostly naked. That is exactly what he wants. The only way it could be better would be if it was a private show, but he cannot start thinking about that right now. They’re having a conversation. “So I can’t come?” he asks. “You don’t want me to?”

Clarke regards him, clearly a little surprised. “You want to?”

“You thought as soon as I found out you were mostly naked I _wouldn’t_ want to come?” he asks, smirking a little. “Come on, Clarke.”

“Oh,” she says, like she actually did think that. “I don’t know. It’s just—it’s not weird for you?”

“I doubt it. Is it going to be weird for you? Are you going to have trouble knowing I’m in the audience?”

She shakes her head, but she’s upgraded from pink to red. “No, um. That would be fine. Like I was telling Octavia, it’s tonight and tomorrow at nine. But you have work tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll do tonight. When are you leaving?”

“Six-thirty or so? It’s at Harrigan Theatre downtown, I need to catch the 59 bus at 6:37.”

“I can make you dinner and give you a ride home after the show,” he offers, and she pecks him on the cheek.

“Thanks, Bell.”

Octavia comes back while Clarke is in the bathroom.

“So, you’re going?” she asks.

“Yup.”

“Remember, no jerking off in public. The museum would fire you if you got in the sex offenders registry.” She pauses. “The bar might too, actually. But probably not. Still, you like the museum better, so–”

He makes to swat her, but she ducks away. “Thanks for the tip.”

*

There is definitely some kind of plot to the burlesque show. Bellamy can tell. He can even sort of follow it for the first few numbers, because it’s basically just a kind of sexy, over-the-top, all-female  _Wizard of Oz_ , and he knows that story. The girl playing Dorothy is basically doing girl-next-door hot, pretty demure except for a lot of cleavage, the Scarecrow has straw covering her in strategic locations, and the Tin Man has grease stains all over her and does very suggestive things with an oil can, but after that is when Clarke, as the Witch, has her first big number, and therefore the point when he loses all track of anything else that’s happening or will happen, because _holy fucking shit_.

He’s pretty sure Clarke isn’t objectively the hottest girl involved, but she’s _his_ girl, and she’s gorgeous. He’s thought about her breasts a lot, but he still wasn’t prepared for them bare with little green pasties on the nipples, wasn’t ready for her singing (really well) as she seduces Dorothy, was not ready for any of this.

She might have been right; he maybe shouldn’t have come. But he can’t imagine missing out on this. He wants to get a sub for his bar shift tomorrow and come back. He wants it on video.

He lingers at the stage door waiting for her, feeling a little like a creep as other girls pass by, glaring at him. It was mostly a female audience, and mostly just women waiting for cast and crew. The Tin Man actually stops and says, “Dude, don’t _lurk_ ,” and he’s stammering a justification when Clarke takes his arm, smiling at the other girl.

“He’s my ride,” she says. She has her hair in a messy bun and she’s wearing her dad’s over-sized old coat and he still wants to press her against the wall and kiss her breathless. “He just has resting scowl face.”

“Great job,” he tells the Tin Man, and lets Clarke tug him off. “You too, obviously,” he adds to her.

“Obviously,” she says, pleased. “What’d you think?”

He should have come up with a prepared response, something normal and intelligent, because he knew she’d ask and he could have said something good. But instead he just blurts out, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Luckily, Clarke just laughs, apparently delighted. “Yeah? Which part? I think Raven’s sexy oil can dance is my favorite, but there is that part where her and Indra make out too.”

Bellamy sort of gapes at her, disbelieving. “ _You_ , Clarke. You’re the—I can barely remember anyone else.”

She gapes right back. “Me?”

“Yeah, of course. You were–god, you’re so–I couldn’t–” He sort of gestures, because there are no words for how amazing she is, and how good she looks, and how he can barely take his eyes off her at the best of times, let alone when she’s on stage. Add in partial nudity and he’s just _done_. “You’re amazing,” he finally says. “No one else came close.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then she throws herself into his arms with enough force he staggers a little. Her mouth is on his before he’s even fully regained his balance, and he lets himself fall back against the building for support as he wraps his arms around her and kisses back.

“ _Of course_ ,” she mutters, between short, biting kisses. “I feel like you don’t get how hot our cast is.”

“I feel like you don’t get how fucking crazy about you I am,” he says. “God, Clarke.” She finally pulls back to stare at him, and he brushes a much softer kiss against her mouth. “I really am.”

“Oh.”

He wets his lips. “So, uh, I’m parked in the back?”

She steps away so he can push off the wall, and he takes her hand, just to see if it’s okay. She tucks herself against his side. “I should have told you about the show sooner. I didn’t know you’d be so into it.”

“I want to kiss you after every show. But, yeah, this one you were wearing little tasseled things on your breasts and fucking garters and—holy fucking shit.”

“They said I could keep them after,” she says, innocent, and he traps her against the car for another long kiss.

“Please tell me you want to go out with me,” he murmurs, kissing her jaw.

“Yes, but if I have a hickey for tomorrow’s show I’ll murder you.”

“Deal,” he says.

He gets Miller to cover his shift the next night, and manages to not jump Clarke while Octavia and Lincoln are around. But once they get back to her place, she just leans up as Octavia is unlocking the door, murmurs, “I’m still wearing the pasties,” in his ear, and then it’s all over.

Octavia tells them to fucking get a room, but Clarke doesn’t seem to mind his lack of control one bit.


	38. Part of a Balanced Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke + regular customers at the same supermarket, where Bellamy somehow can't help noticing Clarke's disastrous eating habits and maybe starts commenting on them some day
> 
> For [cinnamonandseasalt](http://cinnamonandseasalt.tumblr.com/)!

In general, Clarke isn’t one of those people who makes friends wherever she goes. Which isn’t to say she doesn’t have friends–she has plenty of friends. It’s just that she doesn’t start talking to strangers on the train or make conversation with other people waiting in line with her or whatever. Her father does that; her father is the type who can strike up a conversation at the airport and then email his daughter with the person’s contact information and the caption _s/he’s single!!_ It’s like a super power, and it’s apparently not genetic.

Which makes it all the more surprising when someone puts a box of clementines into her shopping cart.

She frowns at the box for a second, utterly perplexed, before it occurs to her to look for the source of the clementines.

The guy standing next to her is someone she knows without actually knowing him. They both come here to shop on the way home from work–at least she assumes he’s also coming from work–so she sees him around fairly often. She’s noticed him because he’s decently attractive and always has earbuds in, and he’s usually either mouthing song lyrics or (she suspects) arguing with audiobooks. Both of which are cute and a little endearing. So, yeah, it’s not like he’s a total stranger, but they’ve never spoken. They’ve never even acknowledged each other.

“Um, this is my cart,” she tells him.

He takes his earbuds out and drapes them over his neck. “Sorry?”

“It’s okay, you just put your clementines in my cart,” she says, giving him a smile and offering the box of fruit.

“Oh, no,” he says. “Those are for you.”

Clarke frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Family pack of macaroni and cheese. Tuna fish, mayo, celery. Oreos, popcorn, granola bars. Lunchables.”

“Are we just naming foods now?”

“I’m just saying, we think of scurvy as something people don’t get anymore, but that’s because most people buy fruits and vegetables. It’s not like we wiped it out or anything.”

Clarke opens and closes her mouth a couple times. “What?” she asks, finally.

“Clementines are easy,” he says. “Just throw one into your bag for work or whatever, eat it on break. No scurvy.”

And then he waves over his shoulder and walks off.

Clarke looks down at her cart. It does contain a number of the foods he named, and no fruits or vegetables except the celery, which she puts in tuna salad. She’s pretty sure it has no real nutritional value.

The clementines are on sale, she notices. And he picked a good pack, ripe and firm and bright. Her mom used to buy them when she was a kid, but she kind of forgot she could do that herself now.

She’s still glad she doesn’t see the guy on her way out. She doesn’t want him to know she bought them after all.

*

Four days later, it’s baby carrots.

“They’re really easy,” he says. “You can eat them raw. Just have a handful when you’re hungry instead of Oreos.”

Clarke glares at him. “You’re not my nutritionist.”

“Yeah, obviously not, there’s no way you have a nutritionist,” he says. “How were the clementines?”

She already ate them and there’s another box in her cart, which he can definitely see. “Shut up,” she says, and he beams.

*

“Do you have a popcorn popper?” he asks the next week.

“Who has a popcorn popper?”

“I do. I bought one cheap on Amazon. Popcorn is actually pretty healthy, if it’s not covered in processed shit like the stuff you’re buying is. Just salt and pepper is really good.”

Clarke considers and finally asks, “Seriously, who _are_ you?”

“Bellamy,” he says, and offers his hand. Clarke shakes it, out of a general lack of other response.

“Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “Cherry tomatoes too.”

And then he wanders off again.

*

She spots him first the next week and sneaks up to scope out his cart. He’s got a bunch of bulk meat that was on sale, some potatoes and onions, _asparagus_ –which, seriously, who buys asparagus?–berries and apples and all this wholesome shit that adults who can cook eat.

She takes the Oreos out of her basket, puts them in his, and leaves before he spots her.

*

“So, are you a chef?” she asks. She ran into him coming in today, so they’re walking around the store together, which is new. He grabs a pack of eggs for himself and offers one to her with a raise of eyebrows. She thinks about it and then nods. She found a cookie recipe she kind of wants to try. She figures making her own cookies is healthier than buying Oreos. And even she can scramble an egg.

“I’m a high school teacher,” he says. “But my mom worked three jobs when I was a kid, so I cooked for me and my sister most days.”

“Oh.”

“She eats like you do,” he says. “Despite my best efforts.”

“So why aren’t you putting shit in her shopping cart?”

“She’s at college in Texas,” he says. “No longer in my jurisdiction.”

“But strangers at the supermarket are fair game?”

“Hey, we’re not strangers anymore, right?”

She has to smile. “So, let’s say I’m working full-time and I’m in school. I usually get takeout for dinner and make a big batch of something for lunch on the weekend. Like tuna salad or mac and cheese. What’s your suggestion for getting healthier?”

“Make batches for dinner too. Or two things. Like–I dunno, three or four total things. Two on Saturday, two on Sunday. Alternate lunch and dinner between them so you have some variety. Wash and eat foods–baby carrots, clementines, sugar snaps, apples. Berries when they’re in season. How are you at cooking meat?”

“Bad. How do you tell if it’s done?”

“Jesus, okay.” He clucks his tongue. “What’s your schedule like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cooking isn’t _hard_ ,” he says. “You just need to learn.”

“Are you offering me cooking lessons?” she asks, squinting at him.

He shrugs, but there’s a little red on his cheeks. “I did say I was a teacher, right?”

“I don’t have class on Tuesdays,” she says, and his smile is relieved.

“Cool. I’m usually free on Tuesdays.”

*

After a month of lessons, Clarke runs into Bellamy in the grocery store. Not that she hasn’t seen him at the store at other times. Not that she hasn’t spent time with him, Tuesdays and sometimes on the weekend too. She’s been seeing a lot of Bellamy Blake, and she’s honestly hoping to see a lot more of him. Really a lot more.

“Wow, steak,” he says. “Ambitious. Potatoes. Blue cheese?”

“You put that on steak, right?” she asks, trying not to blush.

“Yeah.” He picks up a bundle of asparagus. “I thought you said only losers buy asparagus.”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously, this is a really fancy cart, Clarke. I’m impressed. Except for the Oreos.”

“What, you don’t like Oreos?”

“I’m just saying, everything else is–”

“The fancy dinner I’m going to make you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Shut _up_. It’s going to be delicious. You’re going to be really impressed. And your pee’s going to smell weird.”

He actually doubles over laughing, but when he recovers, his smile is fond and a little–surprised, maybe. Clarke doesn’t know, exactly. But she likes it. “You’re so romantic.”

“It would have been more romantic if you didn’t catch me shopping.”

“It’s tradition,” he says, and grabs some oranges for her. “Vitamin C,” he says. “Making out probably sucks if your teeth are all loose.”

“Who says we’re making out?” she grumbles, and he leans in and kisses her, right there, in the middle of the produce aisle. Just briefly, but–yeah, she wants to do it a lot more. “So, um, do you want to come over?” she asks.

“Obviously,” he says. “Now I don’t have to buy anything for dinner.”


	39. Regardless of Warnings the Future Doesn't Scare Me At All - Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: regardless of warnings the future doesn't scare me at all 'verse, traditions
> 
> For [lackingstealth](http://lackingstealth.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4637922)!

i.

“You know, we don’t even have to get him anything for Christmas this year,” Bellamy observes. Alex is nearly a month old, sleeping in Clarke’s lap, and Bellamy thinks he’ll get tired of looking at him eventually, but it’s hard to actually imagine it. And then there’s a voice in the back of his head sometimes that tells him Alex isn’t _really_ his son, that he’s not a father, that someday, Clarke will figure that out too and he’ll lose this, but that’s even harder to really consider. This is his family. He knows it is.

“Hm?” asks Clarke. She might have been half asleep herself, and he kisses her hair.

“He’ll never know if we do absolutely nothing for Christmas this year. We could just sleep in and not tell him anything special is happening.”

“It’s cute you think he’ll be letting us sleep in in two weeks. Also, you started buying him Christmas presents before he was even born, I know you did.”

“They don’t have to be Christmas presents. It can just be stuff I’m giving him.”

Clarke cranes her neck around to look at him. “Is there some sort of issue you have with Christmas that I don’t know about?”

“No, I’m just saying. We have one, maybe two years of our kid not knowing or caring about Christmas before he becomes a nightmare. We might want to take advantage of them while we can.”

“Your sister has already invited herself over,” Clarke points out. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to have a billion people stop by to admire him. My mother might show up.”

He drops his head onto her shoulder. “So, we’re doomed?”

“Don’t be a grinch, Bellamy.”

  
ii.

“So, do you have Christmas traditions?” Clarke asks.

Bellamy and Alex are decorating the tree, which mostly means Bellamy showing him non-breakable ornaments before he puts them up and Alex putting every one of them in his mouth. “Huh?”

“I know we’re still in _holidays our kid won’t remember so we don’t have to care_ territory,” she says, and he sticks his tongue out at her. “But is there any stuff you did in your family you want to keep?”

“Christmas in our family wasn’t great,” he admits. “Don’t read into that. I like Christmas. But mostly as an excuse to give people I like presents. It wasn’t–I had to do a lot of the work on Christmas when I was a kid.”

She comes over, gives him the ornament she just finished, made with the fancy picture they got taken with an actual professional photographer at Christmas, courtesy of Clarke’s mother. It does look really nice.

He presents it to Alex for his approval, and Alex stuffs it in his mouth. “Cool, good job.”

Clarke leans into his side. “So, what can we do to make Christmas better?”

He ducks his head for a kiss. “We’ve got it.” He pauses and adds, “Actually, you know what? I don’t want to do the Santa thing.”

“Dressing up, or anything about him?”

“I don’t want to tell him Santa is real and watching him. That he’ll only get presents if he’s good. I never did that for O.”

“Why?”

“Because my mom didn’t own the bar until I was a teenager, and we never had much money. And she never went all out on gifts like some of my friends’ parents did. So–”

“So you hated Santa.”

“I figured out I got just as many presents when I didn’t bother trying to be good, so I was a total fucking terror for a few years. I’d rather just not lie to him in the first place.”

“Okay, no Santa. I watch Star Wars on Christmas Eve.”

“We didn’t last year.”

“We had a newborn. We passed out and I barely knew what day it was.”

He laughs. “I was just saying we missed it, not criticizing.” He bites his lip. “Your dad really liked Star Wars. I remember.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, Star Wars and no Santa. That’s a good place to start.”

  
iii.

“Maybe we should make it a tradition that we don’t open presents until eight a.m.,” says Clarke. “Get that in early.”

At just over two, Alex is definitely old enough to understand the Christmas hype. Bellamy is regretting the Santa thing a little, just because he had no lies about why Alex had to go to bed. He’s not sure the kid got a wink of sleep. Which at least means he’ll pass out pretty soon, and Bellamy can grope Clarke on the couch.

Christmas miracle, for sure.

“He doesn’t know what time it is,” Bellamy says, pressing his face against Clarke’s shoulder. “He just knows it’s Christmas and he woke up. So it’s morning.”

The living room looks like a battlefield, strewn with the corpses of bright paper soldiers.

“Do we have presents under there somewhere?” Clarke asks.

“Either he opened them already or we’ll find them at New Year’s.”

She laughs and puts her head onto his lap, yawning; she might pass out before he can grope her too. “Merry Christmas, Bell.”

“Merry Christmas.”

  
iv.

“We got you a present,” Alex tells Clarke, as somber as he can manage at just a few weeks past his third birthday.

Clarke smiles, flicks her eyes to Bellamy, standing behind their son. “Thank you. Once you guys have the tree done, you can put it under there.”

“Dad said now.”

“It’s an early present. Alex and I got one too, to be fair,” he says, holding up two candy bars.

“Oh, well, as long as it’s fair.” She takes the bright, construction-paper envelope that Bellamy and Alex put together and opens it with care, smiling at Alex as he watches with interest. Inside is a small piece of white paper with a messy drawing on it, weird blobby things that Bellamy only recognizes as people because Alex has told him they are.

“We didn’t get a Thanksgiving picture this year,” Bellamy explains. “So you couldn’t make an ornament. Alex asked about it, so we thought he could make you one.”

“That’s the baby,” Alex says, climbing into Clarke’s lap and pointing to another blob. She’s not really showing that much yet, not due until May, but Alex insisted.

“We didn’t want them feeling left out,” Bellamy says. “So now we can do the tree, and you can make an ornament. Right, Alex?”

“Yeah!” says Alex.

“It’s not like we have a ton of traditions,” he adds, to Clarke. “I kind of like this one.”

“Me too,” she says. She kisses Alex on the top of his head and puts him back on the floor. “Can you go get me my art box?”

“Okay,” he says, only a little grudging, and takes off.

Clarke tugs Bellamy down for the kind of kiss that reminds him that pregnancy makes her really horny. “That was very sweet of you,” she says.

“Yeah, well,” he says, giving her one more kiss before the kid gets back and tells them they’re gross. “Worth it.”

  
v.

“Why does Phoebe even get presents?” Alex asks, looking at the pile of presents under the tree with a critical eye. He’s good with numbers, and he’s definitely counting. “She’s too little to open them. She doesn’t even know it’s Christmas.”

“Genetics are obviously meaningless,” Clarke remarks from the couch, where she and Phoebe are reading a book. Or, well, Clarke is reading and Phoebe is chewing on her hand. But close enough. “He’s so your son.”

Alex frowns. “Yeah I am,” he says, and Bellamy ruffles his hair.

“You are. When you were a baby, I told your mom we didn’t have to buy you anything for Christmas, because you were just a month old and you’d never know.”

Alex looks deeply offended. “I didn’t get any presents?”

“Of course you did, you know your mom and I are pushovers. And that’s why Phoebe is getting presents too.”

“I guess,” says Alex, but Bellamy can see he’s still trying to count up how many he has versus his sister.

“Why don’t you go brush your teeth so we can watch Star Wars?” Clarke suggests. “You can check out your presents tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He scampers off, and Bellamy sits down on the couch next to Clarke, letting Phoebe take his finger and tug on it. “I told you we needed to get them the same number of presents,” he tells her.

“I know, I know. You’re the Christmas expert, I should always listen to you.”

“Not the Christmas expert, just the big-brother expert,” he says. “I kind of hate Christmas, honestly. When are they going to outgrow this?”

“Never,” she says. “Sorry, Grinch. You’re stuck with Christmas with your family for the rest of your life.”

“Sucks to be me,” he agrees, and offers his hand. “Come on, let’s go watch this movie and then try to figure out how to make the kid sleep without having Santa as a scapegoat.”

Clarke grins and lets him pull her up. “You love Christmas.”

“I love Christmas,” he agrees, with a sigh. “It’s my favorite.”

“Octavia is taking the kids tomorrow night so we get a night all to ourselves,” she reminds him, and he brightens.

“Okay, yeah. Christmas is the _best_.”


	40. this is real fish talk, no lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Would you be able to do a H2O Bellarke fic (the kids I look after are obsessed and I have to make AUs in order to get through it)? If you don't know it, it's where three girls get the ability to turn into mermaids whenever they get touched by water. But could we change it to where Clarke is Emma, Raven is Ricky and Octavia is Cleo with Louis (aka Bellamy) as her big brother. It’s kind of weird, since Louis and Cleo get together in the series but it’s the only way the characters work in my head
> 
> For [adrina-stark](http://adrina-stark.tumblr.com/)!

“We’re not telling Bellamy,” Clarke says, arms crossed over her chest.

“Why not?” Octavia demands. “He’s my brother, if I want to tell him something–”

“It’s not just your decision. We can’t tell _anyone_.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that,” Raven says. “I mean, why can’t we? Yeah, it sounds crazy, but it’s not like we can’t prove it. Instant mermaid, just add water. I’m not saying we should go on TV or anything, but we can tell people if we need to.”

“Why would we tell _Bellamy_?” Clarke asks. It might be a little bit of a whine, actually. It’s just– _Bellamy_. It’s bad enough that she had some sort of mystical experience that turned her into a mermaid; now they want to tell Bellamy about it. He’ll never let her live it down. He’s going to buy her a shell bra. He’s going to be _insufferable_.

But Octavia is saying, “I’ll have trouble hiding it from him, given how tiny our apartment is. He’ll never do anything to put me in danger. Or either of you, honestly. He’s studying marine biology, which is closer to being helpful than anything anyone else we know is studying. He’ll believe us, and he’ll help.”

“Yeah, I’m with O on this one,” says Raven, and Clarke knows it’s all true.

“Fine. But I’m not going to be there.”

“Fine,” Octavia agrees, smug. “I’ll tell him alone.”

*

“So, you’re a mermaid,” says Bellamy, sitting down next to Clarke. She used to dip her feet in the water when she sat on the beach, but–that’s awkward now. Someone might see.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“It’s almost like we’re friends.”

Clarke sighs and flops back in the sand. “Almost. Did Octavia show you?”

“She decided it was easier to show me first and explain after, yeah. How are you doing?”

She squints at him. “How am I doing?”

“I assume it’s a pretty big change. O says she thinks it’s cool, but it’s obvious she’s a little freaked out. Not that I blame her. I’m pretty attached to the bottom half of my body as-is.”

“Yeah, we all know how much you like your dick.”

“Seriously, I’m trying to help,” he says. He runs his hand through his hair, tangling it even more. “She did warn me you didn’t want to tell me.”

Clarke rubs her face. “Great.”

“I know we got off to a bad start,” Bellamy says, and Clarke snorts. He smiles, wry. “A _really_ bad start. But you can trust me. And I’m going to do everything I can to–fix it if you want. Or help if you want. Anything I can do.”

“Okay,” says Clarke, after a pause. They did get off to a rough start, but–she knows he’s a good guy. And it’ll be nice, to have another ally. _Him_ as an ally, even. “You’re still going to buy me a seashell bra, though, aren’t you?”

“Well, you don’t have one yet, right?”

She actually laughs at that. “I don’t.”

“So, yeah. Obviously I’m getting you one.”

She shoves him, and he grins at her, and she feels better than she has since all this started.

Maybe telling Bellamy was the right choice after all.

*

“Have you ever seen that episode of The Simpsons with the crime-fighting boat?” Bellamy asks. “Because that’s what this reminds me of.”

“Less talking, more carrying,” says Clarke. It’s really inconvenient, having a mermaid tail. Not that Bellamy scooping her up and carrying her to the ocean is the worst thing that’s ever happened to her; she has her arms around his neck and his chest is broad and firm and very warm.

This is why they shouldn’t have told Bellamy. It’s bad for Clarke’s mental health, spending time with him. In his _arms_.

“I think it’s called Knightboat. It’s supposed to solve crimes, but, you know, the bad guys always go on land, and then there’s always an inlet or a canal or a fjord so the boat can follow them. It’s really convenient. You guys should work on that.”

“We are not being mermaid crime fighters.”

“You kind of are, though. When you see crime to fight.” He manages to hold her with one hand to kick his jeans off. “Can you get my shirt?”

“You’re coming into the water? You know we could just wait for me to dry off, right? I just needed to get away from the party.”

“It’s a nice night, and I’d feel weird just putting you on the ground and watching you roll into the deep water. Plus, I’ve always wanted you to strip me naked.”

“Are you getting naked?” she asks, affecting only mild interest as she tugs his shirt over his head.

“Okay, to my boxers.” He kicks his jeans off and splashes into the water. “Besides, my excuse for leaving that party with no notice was that I was finally going to get laid. You’re just lucky everyone knows I want to hook up with you and we could hide the tail as we were running out here. It could have been awkward.”

Clarke slides out of his arms once they’re in the water and swims around him, enjoying the feel of the sea around her, watching Bellamy dunk his head himself. It’s late enough in summer that it’s still warm out, and it’s probably refreshing for him, after he worked up a sweat racing her down here.

When she goes back up for air, he’s on his back, looking up at the stars.

“You want to hook up with me?”

“Everyone knows but you.”

“You know I’m a mermaid, right?”

“If this is about the sexual viability of mermaids, I think we could probably keep you human long enough for, uh–” He clears his throat, oddly shy. He’s no blushing virgin, so the moment of insecurity is–cute. Really cute. “Whatever. There are plenty of dry places to hook up. It’s not, like, a deal-breaker or anything. Honestly, you’re a mythical creature with cool superpowers over water that do not make sense to me, that’s awesome.”

She flicks her tail and pulls up beside him. He’s not looking at her, but she cans see he’s flushing a little. His boxers, not really meant to be swimwear, are sticking to him in very distracting ways. There’s a lot of bulging Clarke wants to explore. She lets her fingers trace up his side, and he turns to her, smiling. She smiles back. “You just want to see me in that stupid seashell bra,” she teases, and he leans over to press his mouth against hers, salty and warm and surprisingly gentle.

“Not just that,” he says, voice husky, and Clarke tangles her hand in his hair and pulls him back to her.

*

“If there had been a fjord there, you would have been a lot better off,” Bellamy grumbles. He’s patching up a cut on Octavia’s arm, but he’s talking to Clarke.

“One of those famous Californian fjords.”

“Exactly. Maybe I can get one of those trucks with a pool in the back. That would help with chases.”

“Yeah, but you’d just get a bunch of kids jumping in to swim, which would be awkward,” says Raven, flopping her tail as she waits for it to go away.

“I guess I just have to figure out other ways to contribute to the team. You think guys can become mermaids?”

“You’d be a merman, duh, Bell,” says Octavia. “And don’t pretend you actually want to be one. You just want to figure out how mermaid sex works with Clarke.”

“Like you’re not curious,” he says, flashing a smile at Clarke.

“I don’t want to think about any part of your sex life, even _without_ fish tails,” Raven says, at the same time Clarke says, “No comment.”

“I hate you guys,” Octavia says, groaning and sprawling on her back once Bellamy’s finished with the bandage on her arm. But once the tails have left and they’re walking home, she bumps her shoulder against Clarke’s. “I told you we should tell Bellamy,” she says, smug, and Clarke rolls her eyes, trying not to smile.

“Shut up.”


	41. I Hope Life Will Treat You Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The 100 Bodyguard AU where Bellamy is Whitney Houston and Clarke is Kevin Costner.
> 
> For [crowsfan](http://crowsfan.tumblr.com/)!

“You cannot be serious.”

“I can’t, huh?” Octavia demands. “Try me.”

“She’s fucking pocket-sized,” Bellamy spits, throwing a glare at the girl. He can’t bring himself to think of her as a bodyguard. She’s small and blonde and just because she’s got fierce blue eyes and a gun doesn’t mean she’s some kind of actual badass. Bellamy can take care of himself.

“She’s the same height I am, douchebag,” says Octavia. “And it’s not like you’re a hulking giant or anything. Besides, she’s the one with actual combat training.”

“Combat training,” Bellamy repeats, dubious. “What kind of combat training?”

“Enough,” says the girl. “You won’t be the first person I’ve protected, Mr. Blake.” She pauses, assessing him, and then adds, “You aren’t even the first one who’s been an asshole about it.”

Octavia snorts a laugh, and Bellamy scowls. The girl doesn’t react. “I don’t need a bodyguard,” he tells her.

“I hope you don’t,” she says, shrugging one shoulder. “If I think this is unnecessary, I’ll let you know. Until then, I’ll be here.”

Bellamy glares at her for another minute, but her complete lack of reaction makes it less than satisfying.

“Looking forward to it,” he snarls, and stalks out, slamming the door behind him.

It doesn’t really make him feel better, but it’s all he’s got.

*

“So, how did you become a bodyguard?” Bellamy asks. Clarke’s been with him for two weeks, and she’s actually done things, which is more than he expected. He’s still not convinced O is right about a massive conspiracy to kill him, or even a small conspiracy, but his life does seem to be in some amount of danger, and Clarke has more background in this stuff than he does, for unfathomable reasons.

She has all sorts of weird skills he can’t figure out, honestly. Bellamy’s a musician and an actor on the side, and he’s learned a lot of the kind of famous-person skills he never needed as a poor, angry kid who taught himself to play guitar. But Clarke fits in everywhere naturally, as comfortable at a fancy party in a knockout dress as she is slumming it with his friends from the grunge scene, trading insults with Miller like they grew up together.

The more he gets to know her, the less he feels like he has any idea how to deal with her.

“Realized I was good at it,” Clarke says, and he nudges her foot with his. She throws him a smile. “You really want to know?”

“Desperately.”

She takes a drag from her beer. “My mom was a senator.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup. She got elected when I was like twelve? And she wasn’t very popular. She got all kinds of threats. I had my own personal guard and not a lot of friends, so I got her to teach me how to fight and what she did. No one ever tried to come after me, so it wasn’t like she had much else to do. And I thought it was cool. I kept on studying with her, even after she got other jobs.” She flashes him a grin. “You should have heard the fight I had with my mom when I told her I wanted to be a professional bodyguard instead of going to college. I thought she was going to try to murder me herself.”

“Which would have been very ineffective,” he says, returning her smile. “With all your combat training.”

“Right? She wanted me to be a doctor or something equally prestigious, but–I like this. Granted, sometimes I have to hang out with total assholes like you–”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Mature,” she says, and sticks her tongue out for good measure. “I’m getting another beer, you want one?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, pretends he’s not watching her walk away.

He still, broadly, doesn’t like having a bodyguard. It feels unnecessary. But if it means Clarke is sticking around, he can live with it.

*

“Aren’t you supposed to be a ladies’ man or something?”

“I’m a ladies’ man,” he says, waggling his eyebrows; the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that he’s saying it through a mouthful of popcorn.

“You haven’t brought anyone home for weeks.”

There’s a strange tone to her voice, something that makes his heart speed up. It’s true, he hasn’t, and there’s one simple reason for it: she’s been coming home with him already, and sleeping with any of the beautiful girls he flirts isn’t anywhere near as appealing as just drinking beer with his sarcastic, judgmental bodyguard.

It’s a problem if she doesn’t feel the same, and amazing if she does.

“Nope,” he agrees.

“Don’t tell me you actually agree with me that one of your groupies could be trying to kill you.”

“Definitely not. My groupies love me.”

“That’s how it starts, dumbass. Obsession turns violent. I was hoping you’d finally gotten smart about it, but apparently not.”

“I just think it’s more likely they’re unrelated incidents.”

“It really makes you feel better that a bunch of people are trying to kill you than just one?” Clarke asks, sounding dubious. “That wouldn’t actually be comforting for me.”

“I don’t think all of them were attempts on my life,” Bellamy says. “But I think we’re getting off-topic.”

“This is the definition of on-topic. It’s my actual job.”

He shifts a little closer. “On-topic is that you’re happy I haven’t brought anyone home lately,” he tells her.

Her expression doesn’t change, but her cheeks pink a little. “It makes my life a lot easier, yeah. How embarrassing would it be for me if someone murdered you while you were getting laid?”

“More embarrassing for me, but I guess I’d be dead. But that’s not why I stopped.”

“Oh?” she asks, her voice not nearly as even as she wants it to be. It reminds him that, for all she’s cool and composed, she’s younger than he is by a few years, not much older than his sister. He should be careful with this.

“It turns out you’re a lot more interesting than random starlets,” he says. “I’d rather just come home with you.”

“I’m flattered,” she says. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“You know I don’t,” he says. “You’ve seen me picking people up.”

She catches her lip with her teeth, and he lets himself reach out. It’s amazing, how much he wants this to work.

“Fine, Jesus, I give up,” Clarke mutters, and then she’s in his lap, her mouth hot and desperate against his.

“You don’t have to sound so excited about it,” he says, grinning, and Clarke laughs.

“Shut up, Bellamy.”

*

He knows, broadly, that sleeping with his bodyguard is a bad idea, and falling for her is worse, but he’d already done the later by the time he started doing the former, so by that point, it was basically too late. Bellamy hasn’t really liked someone since his career took off, and Clarke took him completely by surprise. He had no chance before he even started.

Clarke, at least, still has some sense of perspective.

“We cannot keep doing this,” she tells him.“ She’s naked and curled into his side, so he’s really too happy for the statement to destroy his mood. Endorphins are amazing.

“We definitely can. It’s the best.”

“It’s dangerous.”

He frowns. “Dangerous?”

“I know you don’t take these threats seriously, but I’ve seen a lot of this stuff. I’d bet money you’ve got a stalker who thinks you’re hers. Or his, but I think hers is more likely. And if they think that, they’re not going to love you being–” She pauses, looks away, and he tilts her mouth up for a kiss.

“Into you,” he says.

“You’ve never had a public relationship. I thought it was just because you were discrete or something, but you’re like the most affectionate person I’ve ever met, so I’m thinking you’ve actually never had a girlfriend.”

“Not since I made it big,” he agrees, and nuzzles her. “Does this make you my girlfriend?”

She shoves him, laughing. “ _No_ , you dumbass. I’m saying that’s why I can’t be your girlfriend. I think it might make it worse. Also, I’m your employee and it’s massively inappropriate.”

“But other than that.”

She flicks his temple. “You’re an idiot. If not for those two huge issues, yes, I’d probably date you. I have terrible taste in guys. Slightly better taste in women.”

He kisses her again. It’s not the last time, he tells himself. Just the last time for a little while.

*

“If I’d known all I had to do to make you take this seriously was fall for you, sleep with you, and break up with you for your own safety, I would have done it sooner,” Clarke teases.

“It’s the oldest trick in the book.” He makes a face and pulls a piece of paper out of a box labeled _weird fan shit_. “If I had to guess, I’d say this was the first threat.”

“Two months before Octavia hired me,” she says, scanning the note. “It’s definitely creepy.”

He shrugs. “I get creepy stuff all the time. Or just weird. People feel like they know me, so they kind of overshare. I’m used to it. This was the first one that felt like it might not be totally harmless.”

Clarke hums, thoughtful. “This clearly isn’t this person’s first letter,” she says. “They talk like it’s part of an ongoing conversation. Did you find any that look or sound like this? Same style?”

“I never looked.”

Clarke groans and kicks his foot. “You have got to start taking threats on your life seriously, fuck! I _like_ your life, I want it to keep going.”

“I like my life too. Seriously, I just–I really didn’t think it was anything.”

“And you still don’t.”

“I’m not convinced. But I will do everything in my power to help you find someone you can beat up to assure yourself it’s safe for me to date you. I really want that to happen.”

Clarke shakes her head. “You should really care about staying alive for reasons other than dating me. But whatever works, I guess.” She clucks her tongue. “I’m going to take these to the police. Please don’t die while I’m gone.”

“I’ll do my best.”

*

He still doesn’t really take it seriously until she gets shot, for _him_ , and it’s the worst thing in the world because he can’t even get angry at her. She’s his _bodyguard_ ; it’s her job to protect him. Someone tried to shoot him, and she saved him.

It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, and he had a really shitty early life.

“The police caught her,” Octavia tells him, soft. He hasn’t been taking his calls, he’s just been sitting by her hospital bed, waiting for her to wake up. “Apparently those letters Clarke found helped, so you can stop pretending like hiring her was a bad idea.”

“It’s a bad idea if she’s permanently hurt,” he says.

“Bell,” Octavia says, gentle. “She’s a bodyguard. I know you like her, but–her whole life is putting herself in danger. You’re going to have to worry about this a lot.”

“It’s probably better if she’s not getting shot for _me_ ,” he says, but he’s not sure.

Clarke stirs a little, and he squeezes her hand. He barely feels Octavia kiss the top of his head; all his attention is on the girl he loves.

“You okay?” she asks, voice hoarse.

“Jesus, am _I_ okay?” he asks, brushing her hair back. “You got _shot_.”

“Like I’ve never gotten shot before.”

“Please never tell me how many times you’ve been shot. God. I don’t want to know.” He rubs his thumb over her hand. “I’m fine, they caught the stalker, please never get in front of a bullet for me again. _Please_.”

“I’m more prepared to be hit by a bullet than you are.”

“Clarke.”

She hasn’t regained all her strength yet, but her grip on his hand is still firm. “I don’t want anything to happen to you any more than you want anything to happen to me.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m in love with you.”

She smiles a little. “I’m sure.”

He lets out a long breath. “Okay. Cool. So how about from now on, neither of us get shot.”

*

Clarke gets most of the way better, but the doctor says she’s always going to be a little weaker in her left arm.

“I don’t feel like I can fight at the level I used to.”

“Back to being a mere mortal?” he asks.

“I’m just saying, I think I’d be less effective as a full-time bodyguard. I could get into teaching, maybe. Self-defense or something. There are probably a lot of people who would hire me around here, right?”

His heart lodges in his throat. “Yeah, um. I think there are lots of jobs around here.”

“And nice places to live.”

“Nice rock stars who want you to live with them.”

“I’m looking for more of an asshole rock star for my cohabitation needs. Nice rock stars aren’t my thing.”

He doesn’t kiss her quite as hard as he wants to, since she’s still recovering. But he does kiss her very, very thoroughly. “I bet I can find you one.”

“I bet you can.”


	42. BELLAMY/RAVEN Room In My House For You - Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Room In My House For You, Christmas
> 
> For [colourfulmess](http://colourfulmess.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4500900)!

“You think I can ask Raven to come over for Christmas?” Bellamy asks Clarke early in December. She seems like the best source of information on what will and will not freak Raven out. Plus, Octavia is still asleep and Lincoln is at the gym, so no one is around to make fun of him except her. Strategically speaking, this is the ideal time to raise the question.

“Huh,” says Clarke. “Like–is it a good idea?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know she’s not close with her mom and she’d probably be happier staying here, but, uh–”

“You don’t want to scare her off.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Basically.”

The thing is, Bellamy adores his girlfriend. She is amazing. She’s smart and sarcastic and can fix every problem he ever has with his car, which saves him time and money. Plus she’s basically the most gorgeous person he has ever met. Most days, he has trouble believing she’s dating him at all, and he doesn’t want to screw that up.

Unfortunately, his biggest risk for screwing it up is liking her too much, which he almost certainly does. He gets that she’s been hurt, that she wasn’t really looking for anything, and he doesn’t mind being patient. But he and Octavia are awesome at Christmas, and Clarke and Lincoln will be here too, plus his best friend Miller and Miller’s boyfriend, all of whom Raven really likes. And he hates the idea of her all the way in New York State, spending time with her alcoholic mother and douchebag ex-boyfriend, when she could be surrounded by people who love her.

“You won’t,” Clarke says, as if there is absolutely no question.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She leans across the counter with her coffee. “You guys have been dating for, like–four months?”

“Officially, yeah. If we’re counting from when she agreed she was my girlfriend.”

“So, if you were asking her to come and spend Christmas far away with you and your entire family or something? That would be a lot. But you’re asking her to stay home with her amazing, flawless roommate and hang out with people she already knows and likes. It’s the low-pressure version of spending Christmas with your significant other.”

“Is that how O got you to stay?”

Clarke snorts. “My mom and I have never gotten along that well, and I told her at Thanksgiving that I was in a poly relationship with a girl and a black guy. I’m not sure I’m ever getting invited home again. I told O she had to take me.”

“Yeah, okay, makes sense,” he says. “If your roommate breaks up with me, I’m putting toothpaste in your shoes.”

“Deal.”

*

Raven stops by after work the next day with a giant bag full of Halloween candy.

“You know it’s December, right?”

“My boss has like five kids and only lets them eat two pieces of candy per day,” she says. “She realized at this rate they’ll be eating Halloween candy until the actual apocalypse, so she gave it out to us. There’s all this weird, obscure shit in here. Like fruit-flavored tootsie rolls. I don’t even know where you buy those. I think they just spontaneously appear in trick-or-treat bags.” She leans up for a kiss. “Anyway, I figured I’d let you take whatever you wanted and bring the rest back to Clarke. Hey.”

“Hey.” He crowds her up against the counter for a longer kiss, taking the bag out of her hands and putting it safely out of the way. “I cooked for you.”

“Fancy. You know I’ll put out anyway, right?”

“I like doing nice things for you, shut up.”

She sits on the counter and roots through the bag of candy. “Am I supposed to be helping?”

“No, that defeats the purpose.”

“Impressing me with your ability to provide? I hope you hunted and gathered the entire meal yourself.”

“That’s why we’re having squirrel and grass, yeah.”

Raven grins. “So, no occasion?”

“Not really. But that reminds me, I wanted to see if you wanted to stay here with us for Christmas. O and I are doing our usual holiday bash. Clarke’s coming.”

“Holiday bash?”

“Mostly we just do a $20 gift swap with whoever shows up and then get drunk and watch holiday movies we find on Netflix. It’s not, you know–” He shrugs. “It’s not much, but I know you hate going home, and we’d love to have you.”

She grabs the strap of his apron and tugs him over, between her legs. “You want me to come,” he supplies. “You can just say that, you know.”

“I figured it was obvious,” he says. “I won’t be offended if you don’t, though. I know it’s awkward, but she is your mom.”

Raven gives him an almost defiant look. “I told her at Thanksgiving I was doing Christmas with the boyfriend. I was just waiting for you to ask me.”

He laughs and leans in to kiss her again. “You couldn’t have told me that?”

“Gotta keep you on your toes, Blake.”

“You do that with absolutely no special effort,” he assures her. “Don’t worry.”

“Thanks.” She pushes gently on his chest. “Go cook for me.”

“You’re so fucking demanding, I’m never doing anything nice for you ever again.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I bet not.”

*

“So now I have to get her a present.”

Octavia picks up a terrifying Christmas elf/garden gnome and inspects it, either because she is confused by its existence or because she thinks it might be a good present for Clarke, he has no idea which. Clarke likes weird shit.

“So if she wasn’t coming, you wouldn’t buy her a Christmas present? You are such a shitty boyfriend.”

“Thanks. I was going to get her something, I just had to stop stressing out about asking her to come in the first place before I could start thinking about that.”

Octavia replaces the gnome and shakes her head. “Just get her a t-shirt that says _I am pathetically in love with you_.”

“And then I wear it? That seems weird. What are you getting Lincoln and Clarke?”

She grins. “Chocolate body paint. Which I’ll be wearing.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

He is, but mostly just because she has such a clear plan that her significant others will enjoy. Bellamy has never felt like he’s good at presents. He tends toward practical, which is useful, but not exciting. O always got clothes when they were kids, which she _needed_ , but by the time she was six she was circling cheap toys in the newspaper and telling him to buy at least three of them.

That’s how he does best with gift-giving; no guesswork at all.

Raven isn’t his first serious girlfriend, not even the first one he’s spent Christmas with. But she’s the first one he’s really hoping to spend a lot more Christmases with. And he knows a shitty gift won’t destroy that, not all by itself. But part of him feels like he’s still auditioning.

He consults Monty for _video games Raven has said she wants to play but hasn’t bought yet_ , because that’s what he and Raven talk about, and buys her a new socket wrench too because she’s been complaining hers is a piece of shit.

Looking at the neatly wrapped packages, he feels like he _should_ worry about this, because who wants a socket wrench for Christmas?

Then he remembers that his girlfriend does because she is amazing, and throws in a bottle of nice gin for good measure.

She’s totally going to love it.

*

Octavia and Lincoln met because Lincoln put up a Craigslist ad looking for a new roommate, so once they started dating, they got a spare bedroom, which Bellamy generally takes for Christmas Eve, even though his actual apartment is only ten minutes away and he’s never been so drunk he couldn’t make it there. But Miller and Monty take the futon and it’s this whole Christmas experience, which he knows is a little weird, but he loves it.

“You don’t have to do it,” he tells Raven. “You can just go home and come back in the morning.”

Raven considers this for a minute, and then says, “This is just sad, I’m giving you your present early.”

He frowns. “Uh, okay.”

She pushes him up against the wall and kisses him dirty and deep, and he almost loses the train of conversation.

He still manages, “Not a bad present, but you get me that a lot,” because he’s a smart ass.

“I love you,” Raven says, to his shirt. “I’m not–you can stop worrying I’m going to bolt because you’re too attached. I’m too attached too. I’m in love with you.”

“Shit,” he says, all the breath leaving him. “I got you a socket wrench.”

Raven laughs, and he catches it with his mouth, chases the sound.

“I love you too,” he says, hand tangling in her hair.

“Yeah, I noticed. I love socket wrenches. And it’s not like that’s all I got you, I bought you shit too. I just figured that’s what you really wanted for Christmas.”

He might never stop kissing her. “Yeah, it was. Thanks.”

“Now next year is going to be a letdown,” she says, but she looks pleased, and, honestly, the casual reference to next year is almost as good as her loving him in the first place.

Almost.

“Yup,” he agrees. “It’s going to suck.”


	43. Kinder Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Clarke decides to tell Bellamy she's pregnant by putting it in his Christmas cracker. Chaos ensues when the cracker accidentally gets swapped...
> 
> For [biteymadlady](http://biteymadlady.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke maintains that it’s Bellamy’s idea, although he argues that anything that’s actually a _surprise_ couldn’t have been his idea. Clarke points out that he was the one who wanted her to wait to tell him until she was _sure_ about the pregnancy, and if she was waiting anyway, she might as well have fun with it.

It’s not her fault it goes wrong.

The plan is, at heart, a good one: Bellamy is working Christmas Eve and the day after Christmas, because the museum is only closed on Christmas itself and he used all his vacation days for Thanksgiving. So it’s going to be just the two of them, their first Christmas where they’re not going anywhere and not having anyone over. It feels like the perfect time to do something special to announce her pregnancy.

She spends a few Saturdays making custom Christmas crackers while he’s at work, because Bellamy inexplicably _loves_ Christmas crackers. She’s not sure why she makes a full box them, except that it’s kind of oddly fun, putting them together, and Bellamy does really enjoy them. She figures they’ll just use all eight all by themselves. She does mark the one with the custom joke, _Knock-knock, who’s there, our baby_ , which, okay, it’s not the best ever, but the cracker itself is really nice, and she made awesome custom crowns and a little toy baby, so yeah.

It’s a good plan, right up until the snowstorm hits.

“No one’s going to be able to get out of town,” Bellamy says, flopping down on the couch next to her and rubbing her face. “I told O she and Lincoln could come over.”

“I told Raven and Wells they could too. Might as well call Monty and Miller, make it a party.”

“At least it’s so bad the museum closed. I’ll go to the store and get us more food.” He leans over and kisses her. “Sorry. I was looking forward to it just being the two of us too. Next year.”

In retrospect, that’s when she should have told him. Right then, just a simple, _Actually, we’re going to have someone else next year_ , and everything would have been fine.

Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned against him, basking in the last few minutes of just the two of them. She loves her friends, but she’s pregnant and already feels stretched too thin, and it’s hard, switching from low-key Christmas with her husband to eight-person dinner party.

“It’s fine. They’ll go home and it’ll be just the two of us tomorrow, right?”

“Yup. Just have to get through Christmas Eve dinner. Do you want to come to the store?”

“No, I’ll do setup here.”

“I’ll get lots of booze,” he says, and, again, _perfect times to tell him_. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

“I’ll put away our breakables.”

Octavia shows up first, arms full of groceries of her own, a dominating whirlwind as always. Clarke adores her sister-in-law, but she’s also a little bit terrifying.

“Honestly, I’m kind of glad the snow came? Lincoln’s family is, like–overwhelming.” She seems to realize that it’s more laid back for her and a lot less laid back for Clarke and flashes an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I know this was a big deal for you and Bell. He swore you didn’t mind.”

“We don’t,” she says. “I invited Raven and Wells at the same time he invited you, we were on the same page. We love having you guys, it’s fine.”

“I promise, I’ll do all the work,” says Octavia, and Clarke smiles.

“I have no doubt, control freak,” she says, bumping her shoulder against Octavia’s.

It’s a nice afternoon, honestly. She does like Christmas with her friends. Octavia does most of the food, Lincoln makes his famous sugar cookies, Raven and Monty get video games hooked up and do brackets for a Smash Brothers tournament, which Clarke loses in round 2, but it’s still fun.

And then she sees the Christmas crackers on the table.

“Where did you get those?” she asks Octavia. She did use the shells from store-bought crackers, so it’s possible–

“I brought them,” says Octavia. Clarke is relieved for a second until she adds, “But I only had six, so I had to take two of yours.”

The chances are low, right? She had eight, and only one of them is a custom baby cracker. It’s been a while since she did probability in high school, but there are decent odds that the baby cracker didn’t make it out of the box.

She’s going to check. She is. But Octavia keeps telling her to do things, and there’s another video game tournament, and she has to keep anyone from giving her alcohol without being suspicious about it, and–honestly, she doesn’t really know how to tell Bellamy. The cracker seemed like such a good idea, and she’s still attached to it.

Besides, there’s no way anyone else got it, right?

“Hey, O, I think you fucked up,” Raven says, picking up a small toy baby out of the cracker wreckage. Clarke feels her blood run cold. “Pretty sure this one was Lincoln’s.”

Octavia is trying to get her paper crown on without breaking it, and she glances at Raven. “Hm?”

“Congrats, I guess?”

Octavia frowns. “Congrats on what?”

“Mine’s baby-themed, so unless you knocked me up, or Wells knocked me up and no one told me, you screwed up your cracker placement.”

Octavia’s frown deepens. “Yeah, that’s not mine.”

Bellamy and Miller are talking about the new Star Wars, and they haven’t even noticed the commotion yet. Monty is examining the card Raven got, and Lincoln is watching Octavia with interest.

Clarke mostly wants to sink into the ground and die.

It’s Octavia who figures it out first, of course.

“Oh,” she says, looking at Clarke. “ _Oh_.”

Raven’s eyes widen as she gets it too. “Wait, you–”

“I just saw them when I was getting napkins,” Octavia says. “I figured I’d grab a couple to make up numbers.”

Wells’ eyes flick to Bellamy. “So you–”

“Just give it to me,” Clarke mutters, cheeks flaming.

“Wow,” says Monty, handing over the card. “That’s really cute,” he adds, smiling. “Great idea.”

“Subpar execution,” says Clarke.

Octavia nods, mind made up. Octavia knows how to take control of a situation. “So, it’s getting late!” she announces, bright. It’s enough to pull Bellamy out of his conversation, and he frowns.

“You said you were going to party all night,” he says.

“Yeah, but the snow’s getting worse, so we should leave now. Before it gets, you know. Worse and worse.”

Miller glances at Monty, and they have a silent conversation. When Bellamy does the same to Clarke, she just smiles helplessly, because–well, this is what happened. And it’s not like she doesn’t want to be alone with her husband.

“Okay, cool,” Bellamy says, shrugging. “Good to see you guys.”

There’s the usual hugging and well-wishes, and Clarke gets a lot of low, whispered congratulations, when everyone is sure Bellamy won’t hear.

And then it’s just the two of them again.

“Please tell me you didn’t get in a fight with my sister,” Bellamy says, not sounding like he’s particularly worried.

She tugs him back onto the couch, curls up against his side. “No, I didn’t. You’re really into yelling about Star Wars, huh?”

“Oh, like you’re not. I was surprised you didn’t butt in.”

She probably would have, of course, if she hadn’t been so distracted with the Christmas crackers. And he hadn’t even _noticed_. He put on his crown and then went right back to bickering with Miller.

It’s absurd, and she buries her face against his neck, giggling.

“What?” he asks.

“You totally missed Raven’s cracker.”

“Did it have a terrible joke?”

“The worst,” she says, and hands it over.

He reads it over, blinking. “Okay, yeah, but–that’s not even, like, funny stupid. It’s not even a joke. They could have at least done Santa baby or something.”

Clarke shakes her head and presses the clay baby into his hand. “It came with that.”

“Points for staying on theme,” he says, turning the figure over in his long fingers. “Nice quality, too. It looks like–” He stutters and looks up at her. “It looks like something you’d make,” he says, slow.

“Yeah,” she says.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Clarke,” he manages, voice shaky.

“Octavia found it, she needed a couple more for the table. I should have just–” She smiles. “I should have checked them but we were busy and I was trying to keep you from giving me a beer.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “Shit. I didn’t even–”

“I hadn’t told you. It was going to be cute. You know, just the two of us. I figured I’d just do it tomorrow instead, but–Octavia grabbed it by accident.”

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her. “We’re having a baby,” he says, stunned.

“We’re having a baby.”

“All our friends know.”

She laughs against his neck. “All our friends know. Sorry. Raven thought it was for Lincoln. It was supposed to be romantic. Or at least cute and fun.”

“It’s very cute and fun.” He kisses her hair. “You could have just told me.”

“You wanted me to wait!”

“I meant you should go to the doctor first, not that you should put it in a Christmas cracker,” he teases.

“I went to the doctor last week. I’m due in July.”

“Holy shit,” he says.

“Yeah, so–it’s not just going to be the two of us for Christmas next year,” she admits, sliding her hand under his shirt to rest against his side. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m heartbroken,” he says, nosing her temple.

“Worst Christmas ever.”

He laughs and tugs her into his lap. “I’m sure I’ll get over it.”


	44. WELLS-CENTRIC I don't wanna follow death and all of his friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In which Wells Jaha is taken by the Mountain Men instead of Charlotte killing him, Wells surviving and after the mount weather shitstorm giving Bellamy a you hurt Clarke you die kinda thing? (Implied Bellarke?)
> 
> For [sunshineandreyes](http://sunshineandreyes.tumblr.com/)!

Wells has never believed in any kind of afterlife, so it’s a bit of a letdown to wake up in an ethereal, white room after he died. He knows it shouldn’t be a disappointment, that he isn’t just done with his existence at seventeen, but–it’s such a _cliche_.

He tries to get up and something starts beeping; if this is heaven, he shouldn’t _hurt_ so much.

“He’s awake!” someone calls, and there’s activity all around him.

It still takes him a few beats to realize he’s not dead, that this isn’t heaven.

A girl leans over him, shines a light in his eyes.

“Where–” he starts.

“Don’t try to talk.” She flashes him a tight grin. “You lost a lot of blood. Just stay still. You’re going to be all right.”

To his surprise, it’s true. He recovers slowly, but he does recover. The girl is the one who comes most often, he assumes because she’s around his age, non-threatening, calm and unflappable. He finds out her name is Maya, and he’s in Mount Weather.

“We haven’t contacted the rest of your people yet,” she says. “We can’t leave the mountain, there’s too much radiation. It’s hard for us to–”

He must look like he’s not buying it, because she ducks her head.

“We’re waiting to see how you turn out.”

He can’t tell if she means him specifically or everyone, all the kids from the Skybox, but in a way, it doesn’t matter. He’s too weak to leave now. He has to regain his strength before he can do anything else. He did get stabbed in the neck; it takes time to recover from that.

He’s well enough to walk on his own when Maya finds him, takes his arm, and whispers, urgent, “They’re bringing in more of you.”

His heart lodges in his throat. “Why?”

“There was–a battle. I don’t know all the details. They picked up the survivors.”

_Survivors_ , Wells thinks. He wonders how many of them survived, which ones. How many even made it long enough to be in the battle.

Clarke would have survived. He can’t imagine Clarke dying. Not just because he can’t bear the idea, but because it’s _Clarke_. Clarke won’t let herself get killed easily.

Still, every day, more and more of their people come out of quarantine, and Clarke isn’t among them. But they all say she’s their leader, her and Bellamy. That she must be fine.

It’s strange, other people having the same faith in Clarke that he does, when they used to think of her as a spoiled princess. Strange too is how happy they are to see him, how they seem genuinely glad he’s alive.

And then there’s Clarke, bloody and wild-eyed but _alive_ , and nothing else matters at all.

He gets to her before they do, holds on, and she buries her face against his neck, chants, _Wells, Wells, Wells_ , tears hot on his neck.

They let him go with her back to the quarantine, he assumes because she looks as if she’ll murder them if they try to make her let him go.

“Finn?” she asks, soft. “Bellamy?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t–I only know who’s here, Clarke. They aren’t.” He pauses. “Bellamy?”

“He did good,” Clarke says. “He _is_  good. We have to find them, Wells.”

“We will,” he promises, and holds on to her just as tight.

The next month is rough. Clarke manages to escape sooner than he expected, and he can’t blame her, but–he was away from her for long enough. It’s hard to believe that he’ll see her again, when he already lost her so many times.

And the worst part is that he doesn’t. Bellamy walks back into Camp Jaha– _Camp Jaha_ , with no signs of his father–alone, and Wells shoves him, hard. He doesn’t care that Bellamy is reformed or whatever, that he and Clarke are–whatever they are.

“Where is she?”

“She left,” Bellamy says. He sounds hollow.

“She _left_?”

“She said she couldn’t come in.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “I told her to stay, okay? I begged her. She’s probably still close enough you can go after her, maybe you can–fuck.”

It’s still strange, trusting Bellamy. But Clarke does. Clarke and Bellamy are something else, honestly, something that makes Wells ache. He doesn’t think they’d be–he doesn’t know what they would have been, if the mountain hadn’t taken him. He wishes he could feel like Bellamy Blake replaced him, but he knows they’re something different. Bellamy and Clarke are something new.

“No,” he says. “You know how she is. Her mind’s made up.”

Bellamy’s mouth twitches, just a little. “Yeah. I know how she is.” He claps Wells on the shoulder, false cheer and real affection. It’s strange to remember that, even when Bellamy was being some anarchist dick, he was still giving Wells advice on his love life.

It’s even stranger to remember thinking _Finn_ was going to be his competition.

A lot can happen in two months, apparently.

Things don’t go back to normal after that. There’s no such thing as normal. Wells falls in with the rest of the hundred, keeps his allegiance with them, even though he never really felt like one of them. They’re Clarke’s, and that means they’re his. That’s how it’s always been.

He has Bellamy’s back in council meetings, when Kane tries to ignore that they were doing fine before the Ark ever came down. He gets to know the people he didn’t really before, and he’s surprised to find he’s one of them without difficulty.

He lets himself think about having feelings for Raven Reyes, tentatively, like new growth. It feels like a betrayal, almost, but he still wants Clarke back, like a physical ache. He just knows that even if she comes back, she won’t be his. She’ll be his best friend, she’ll always be his best friend. But he’s seen the way Bellamy Blake watches the horizon.

When she does come back, she brings his father, and John Murphy.

“It’s not good news,” she says, looking to Bellamy first, and then Wells. Bellamy looks away, like he doesn’t know how to maintain eye contact, and Clarke winces so slightly he’s not sure anyone else would even know it happened. “I told you,” she adds, to his father. “He’s _alive_.”

“Wells,” says Thelonious, slow and disbelieving, and he tugs his son into his arms.

“Seriously,” Wells hears Clarke telling Bellamy, through a haze, “it’s bad.”

Bellamy’s arms are crossed, like he thinks he can keep Clarke away. Like he thinks he wants to. “Go tell your mom, then,” he says, walks away, and no one could miss her wince at that.

It’s another day before he has the chance to try to talk Bellamy down. He takes off first thing in the morning to go hunting, even though he almost never does that himself any more, obvious to everyone, even Clarke, and she’s only been back for a day.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Raven asks.

“You don’t want to?”

Raven snorts. “Hell no. I’ve got better shit to do than play relationship counselor. Our generator is a piece of shit, I need to beat it back into shape.” She claps him on the back. “You’ve got this.”

“I’ve got the least to do?”

“You’ve got the least to do.” She glances over at Clarke, at loose ends. “I’ll keep an eye on her. We’re not letting her leave again.”

“Thanks,” he says, and follows Bellamy out.

They’re out of sight of the camp when Bellamy asks, “What are you doing?” which Wells takes to mean he wants to talk. Otherwise he would have stopped this sooner.

“Don’t be a dick.”

Bellamy snorts. “That ship has sailed.”

“I know Clarke hurt you,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you should hurt her.”

“I’m not doing anything.” Wells catches his arm, and Bellamy stops, sets his jaw, stubborn. “What?”

“You think she would have left if she had any other choice?” Wells demands. “You think she wouldn’t have stayed if she could? You’re not going to feel better if you punish her.”

“She brought your dad because he had news,” Bellamy retorts. “You think she’s going to stay?”

“I think we can get her to stay. But I don’t think we can without you.”

“I didn’t do much good last time.”

“Fine, she left, she broke your heart, I get it, okay? It’s not like she’s never broken my heart. But she still wants you, okay? She couldn’t stop looking at you. And if you screw this up and push her away because you’re stubborn or hurt or whatever, I’m going to punch you. We need her back. _You_ need her back.”

There’s a pause, and then Bellamy lets out a huff. It’s not quite laughter, but it’s related.

“You can’t even throw a good punch,” he tells Wells.

“She’s in love with you,” Wells says, and it makes Bellamy flinch. But he’s sure. “I’ll learn how to throw a good punch.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy finally says. “Okay.” He shoulders his bow. “We should get back,” he says. “It’s too fucking cold to hunt anyway.”

They have a bonfire that night, and Bellamy’s arm is around Clarke while she drinks. Raven brings Wells a cup of his own, sits down next to him and smiles. “See? You’re the relationship counselor.”

“I said I’d punch him.”

“I would pay to see that fight.”

Wells snorts. “He’d kick my ass.”

“Nah. He’d feel too guilty. Like kicking a puppy.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.”

Clarke comes over, sits down on his other side and rests her head against his shoulder. It doesn’t feel like heartbreak, not really. It feels like the last piece of his second chance, sliding into place.

“Sorry I left you,” she says.

“I know. You’re not leaving again?”

“No. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he says. “But we’re back now.”

Bellamy sits down with them too; Clarke finds his hand and then closes her eyes. “Yeah. We’re back.”


	45. Checking It Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Elf" AU? Pleeeeeaaase? You can decide who is the awkward human raised by elves, and who is the one who hates their job at a department store during the holidays.
> 
> For [missemarissa](http://missemarissa.tumblr.com/)!

In general, Clarke would not recommend getting disowned. Especially at Christmas. Especially if one is used to a life of luxury. At the same time, she has to admit it beats the alternative, which would have been continuing to interact with her mother. 

Still, having to pick up a third job as a holiday elf at a department store to pay for the new apartment she had to get after said disowning is basically the polar opposite of a Christmas miracle. Nothing has ever been less of a Christmas miracle.

Lincoln looks exhausted when she shows up; he’s only been here for an hour, so apparently it’s the worst day ever. Because of course.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I had to break up a fist fight.”

“Wow. Don’t tell me Murphy was promising things kids couldn’t possibly get.”

“Weirder,” says Lincoln, and jerks his head toward a sullen girl with long brown hair. She looks to be a few years younger than Clarke, and she has the start of a black eye. “She started telling Murphy he wasn’t really Santa. I talked Kane out of calling the police, she says her brother is coming to get her. But she’s not happy about it.”

“What happened to the display?” Clarke asks, pulling on her hat and elf ears.

“She did,” he says. “Octavia.”

“Octavia?”

“The girl who fought Murphy.”

Clarke glances at Lincoln, who’s still watching the girl. “And?” she prompts.

He shrugs. “And what?” he says, like he’s not staring.

Clarke sighs. “Murphy is patching himself up?”

“Yeah.”

“So we’re off work for like twenty?” He nods, and Clarke takes his arm with a smile. “Let’s go talk to the angry girl who wants to fight Santa.”

Lincoln is a little flushed, for which Clarke can’t blame him. Who doesn’t like a hot girl who puts together amazing Christmas displays and physically fights douchebags dressed as Santa Claus? If Lincoln hadn’t gotten dibs, Clarke would probably be hitting on her.

Well, until they start talking.

“Hey,” says Clarke, sitting down on one side of Octavia. Lincoln sits on her other side. “I heard you punched Murphy.”

“He’s a liar,” she says, scowling. “He’s not really Santa.”

Clarke outgrew the whole Santa thing a long time ago, but–maybe it’s possible to not. Maybe she’s really sheltered. “Yeah, he’s not. You did the display?”

Octavia perks up at that. “Yeah! It looks really nice. Santa would love it.”

“He would?”

“Yeah. We’re, not, like, best friends or anything? But I see him a few times a year. And I used to help with decorations. I wasn’t very good in the factory. My hands are too big.”

“O, shut up.”

The three of them jerk up to stare at the guy who’s just come in. He’s–hot, honestly, even though he’s scowling. Curly black hair, freckles, tie loose around his neck.

He’s also a little–familiar.

“I’m not going with you,” says Octavia.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“You’re on the _Naughty List_.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“And that’s why! Language, Bellamy!”

“Bellamy?” Clarke asks, squinting at him. “Bellamy Blake?”

Bellamy goes pale. “Clarke?”

She hasn’t seen him since high school, and it’s slightly annoying that he’s gotten more attractive. Especially now that he looks more confused than angry. Confused is a cute look on him.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” she says, glancing at Octavia. _She’s_ still glaring, and there’s some family resemblance, now that she’s looking.

“Neither did I.”

“You knew,” Octavia snaps. “You–”

“I looked for you! No one had any idea what happened! I thought you were dead, how the fuck was I supposed to know–”

“Guys,” says Clarke, careful. “Please don’t get in another fight, okay? We’d probably have to call the police this time, and that would be scarring for the kids.”

Bellamy rubs his face. “Yeah, uh, thanks for not calling them this time.” He looks at his sister pleading. “Just come home, O? Before they decide to press charges.”

“Fine,” she says, getting up in a huff. She does, at least, turn back to Lincoln. “Thanks for your help.”

“Sure,” says Lincoln.

“Good to see you again, Clarke,” Bellamy says, with a tight smile, and Clarke and Lincoln watch them go.

“You’re right,” she says, when they’re alone again. “That was weirder than usual.”

“Yeah,” Lincoln says. “I thought so too.”

*

She doesn’t really think she’ll see Bellamy or his sister again–she’s been living in New York for three years and she’s never seen him before–but it’s like when you learn a new word and suddenly it’s everywhere. The next night, she’s at her second job, at the bar, and there they are. She sends Lincoln a text, _Hot Santa-punching girl @ bar_ , because she’s a good friend, and then slides down to greet them.

“Hi, Blakes.”

Bellamy blinks. “Hi, Clarke. You, uh–work here?”

“I do. What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a Guinness,” says Bellamy. “Octavia can have, uh–something sweet with very little alcohol?”

“Does she have an ID?”

“Shit,” he mutters. “No.”

“I want hot chocolate,” says Octavia.

“I can do hot chocolate,” says Clarke, sliding Bellamy his beer. “How are you guys doing? Punch anyone today, Octavia?”

“I don’t punch people that often,” she mutters. “And I didn’t punch anyone today.”

“Cool, good job,” Clarke says. “I want to punch Murphy all the time, I’m glad someone did.”

“Please don’t encourage her,” says Bellamy, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

Lincoln shows up a few minutes later, of course, and Octavia follows him to learn how to play darts, which Clarke thinks is probably good. Bellamy needs to talk to someone about his fucking disaster of a life. He looks _exhausted_.

“So, do you want to tell me about it?” she asks, sliding him a beer.

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s happening with your sister?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“I might.”

“I don’t believe me.”

“Come on, try me. I’m a bartender. I’ve heard everything.”

He snorts. “You haven’t heard this.”

Clarke just leans across the bar, in a way she knows shows off her cleavage. Bellamy definitely needs some cleavage in his life. He’s clearly having a rough time.

“Come on,” she says again, encouraging, and he takes a long drink.

“My mom died when I was eight,” he says. “O was two. It was right around Christmas. We were supposed to go to a foster family, but with the holidays, we got sent to an orphanage for a few days. And–they lost her.”

“Lost her?”

“I know, it sounds crazy. I was so fucking–I thought it was my fault. I didn’t keep a good enough eye on her.”

“You were _eight_ ,” Clarke says, frowning. “There’s no way it was your fault. The orphanage should have been keeping track of her. How did they–”

Bellamy is smiling now. “Your outrage on my behalf is appreciated. But–I don’t know. They never found her. I didn’t forget, but I couldn’t do anything. I kept googling or just–I never found anything. I thought she was–” He sighs. “And then three days ago, she showed up at my apartment and told me she’s been being raised by Elves. In the North Pole. With Santa.” Before she can respond, he rubs his face. “I know. You don’t have to tell me how it sounds.”

“But you believe her,” says Clarke.

“She’s my sister.”

“How do you know?”

He frowns. “What?”

“You haven’t seen her since she was two, right? Why are you so sure she isn’t scamming you?”

Bellamy looks over at Lincoln and Octavia. “I stopped talking about her. I’d google and stuff, but–the orphanage covered it up, so no one believed me. I never told anyone her name, except this PI I hired, and if he was scamming me, he would have been the one to find her, right? And–” He swallows. “I named her. I was there when she was born. I’m sure.”

“And you believe her about where she was.”

“She told me I was on the Naughty List and got in a fight with a mall Santa,” he says, dry. “The truth honestly seems like the most logical explanation.”

Clarke smiles, raises the glass she’s cleaning. “Then congratulations on finding your sister, Bellamy Blake.”

He looks at her for a moment, like he’s trying to detect a trap, and then he breaks into a smile, clinking his glass against her empty one. “Thanks.”

*

“So, am I on the Naughty List?” Clarke asks. Bellamy claims he’s trying to help Octavia socialize, and that’s why he called her and begrudgingly said she could bring her friend. Clarke figures it’s true, but also kind of hopes he wants to make out. She wants to make out.

“I don’t know,” says Octavia. “Santa just warned me my brother was.”

Clarke pokes him. “What did you do?”

“I assume it’s just because I’m generally a dick,” he says, apparently unconcerned. “Also, I’m a lawyer. I assume I’m on the Naughty List by default.”

“What kind of law?”

“Corporate. The most soulless kind, basically. I help rich people get richer.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” she says. They weren’t close in high school, but she remembers him calling her a spoiled princess during a debate about health care in gym class when she was a sophomore and he was a senior. They got sent to the principal’s office for being disruptive.

He glances at Octavia, who’s eating Lucky Charms with maple syrup. Clarke’s teeth hurt just looking at her.

“I figured if I threw enough money at a PI, he’d find O eventually. I needed money to throw at him.”

“So now he can get a better job,” Octavia says, bright. “We’re going to get him on the Nice List.”

“So, yeah,” says Bellamy, smile wry. “That’s happening.” He nudges Clarke with his foot. “What about you? What have you been doing since high school?”

“Dropped out of med school, got disowned, working three jobs. The usual.”

He chokes on his beer. “Jesus.”

“Awesome, right?” she asks, bright.

He bites back on a smile. “Yeah, kind of.”

*

“This is going to sound crazy, but I need your help,” Bellamy says.

The bar is mostly deserted, since it’s Christmas Eve–well, after midnight, so technically _Christmas_ –and Clarke has been bored as shit.

“Are you watching Cartoon Network?” he continues, frowning.

“Shut up. This is why I’m on the Nice List and you’re not.”

“We still don’t know that. But we will soon. Go to the news.”

Clarke flips channels until she sees _Lincoln_ in front of the camera, reading what appears to be a list of names.

“Santa crashed in the park, Lincoln is reading the Naughty List on live TV to make people believe, you need to come sing with me so we can save Christmas,” Bellamy says.

“You can’t sing and save Christmas alone?” Clarke asks, already taking off her apron and grabbing her coat.

“I really can’t.”

Clarke takes off the Santa hat she’s wearing and puts it on his head. “Christmas spirit,” she says, smiling and retrieving the elf hat she wears for work out of her pocket for herself. “You really want to make the Nice List next year, huh?”

He takes her hand in his and tugs her out the door. “What can I say?” He tosses her a grin. “I’m really starting to get into this Christmas thing.”

*

The Naughty/Nice List comes out on Black Friday, and Octavia treats it like the biggest day of the whole year. It’s a fucking _event._

“I think you’ve really got a shot this year, Bell!”

“I really don’t care,” he says, but Clarke knows it’s not true. He’s got a new job that he seems to like a lot more than his old job, he’s got his sister back and he’s got a great girlfriend, if Clarke does say so herself. His life has definitely changed for the better.

Octavia has an app on her phone to check the List which Clarke has to admit is pretty cool. She’s glad the North Pole is keeping up with current tech. “Bellamy Blake!” she says, showing him the phone. “Nice List.”

“Congrats,” says Clarke.

“You’re on here too, Clarke, but we knew that. And Lincoln! I need to call him.”

“You know most adults don’t care about this, right?” Bellamy calls after her, and Clarke climbs into his lap once they’re alone.

“I don’t buy it.”

“No, I’m pretty sure adults don’t care,” he says, leaning up to kiss her.

“I meant you on the Nice List,” she says. “There’s no way. Santa must not have seen what you did to me last night.”

Bellamy groans and drops his head onto her shoulder. “For my own sanity, I assume Santa has never seen me get laid.”

Clarke grins. “I’m just saying, you’re a good guy, but you’re really, really naughty.”

The kiss he gives her just proves her point. “So you’re saying I’m not getting anything good for Christmas?”

“Nothing _nice_.”

He grins. “Awesome.”


	46. If the Fates Allow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke and "surprise, I'm home for the holidays when you thought I wasn't gonna be" AU 
> 
> For [bellamystletoe/hooksandheroics](http://bellamystletoe.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy never cared that much about Christmas until Clarke went off to college.

He didn’t hate it or anything, it just didn’t do much for him, as a holiday. Presents are cool, but he’s a believer in buying things for people he likes when he sees them and not waiting for birthdays or holidays. Trees and Santa and special Starbucks cups? He’s never cared about that shit. And he only ever manages so much goodwill toward men.

But then Christmas became the time of year when he sees Clarke, and he didn’t realize how much he cared about that, not until he stopped seeing her all the time, hanging out on his couch with his sister and bickering with him after school.

The good news was that Clarke seemed to feel the same; she’d always been primarily Octavia’s friend, but Octavia went to spend Christmas with her boyfriend their junior year of college, and Clarke still showed up at Bellamy’s almost every night to hang out, and after that, he decided they were friends too, albeit friends who only saw each other once or twice a year.

He doesn’t think he’s in love with her until she’s two years out of college and he asks her when she’s coming home for Christmas, and she says she’s not.

“I have to work, my boss is a nightmare,” she says, sounding exhausted. She’s sounded exhausted every time he’s talked to her since she got the job, and he was looking forward to fretting over her at Christmas. She’s probably not eating right. “And my girlfriend is staying in town, so–”

Bellamy’s world stops. It’s not like she hasn’t dated people before. She came out to him Christmas of her sophomore year, and she’s had a couple boyfriends and girlfriends since then. But no one she’s ever spent the holidays with. No one he ever thought of as serious, he realizes now. “Have I heard about the girlfriend?” he asks, keeping his voice even.

“I don’t think so,” she says. “We’ve been going out for a couple months. I wouldn’t–you know, I wouldn’t be ready to go home with her or whatever, but as consolation prizes for not being able to see you guys go, it’s not bad.”

It makes him feel a little better, but he can’t stop knowing that he wants to spend every Christmas with her, for the rest of his life. “I hope you didn’t tell her that.”

Clarke lets out a strange kind of snort; he can practically picture her, flopped back on her bed, eyes closed, hair down like it always is when she has a headache, which she definitely does. “Yeah, believe me, I know better.” There’s a pause, and she says, “I’m going to see if I can get some time off to visit in non-peak season. I’m the new girl so I’m at the bottom of the hierarchy for vacation days. But maybe in February or March?”

“Yeah,” he says, falling back on his own bed. “Let me know when you’re around.”

*

“So, why’s he sulking?” asks Miller.

“I’m not sulking,” Bellamy protests, at the same time Octavia says, “His girlfriend isn’t coming home.”

He glares at his sister, and O rolls her eyes. “He totally stole her from me too. She was my best friend first.”

“She’s not my girlfriend and I didn’t steal her.” Miller and Octavia both look at him, and he glares. “She’s not. She has a girlfriend, so, you know. But, yeah, it sucks she’s not coming home for Christmas.”

“She just comes over and sits on the couch with him and they flirt about _Netflix documentaries_ ,” says Octavia. “It’s honestly the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I was really looking forward to it,” says Bellamy.

“That is sad. Where does she live?”

“California. She went to Pomona for college and just stayed out there.”

“Yeah, and then she came back for Christmas freshman year with a surfer tan and boobs and Bell’s been totally gone ever since,” says Octavia, rolling her eyes. She does it so often Bellamy’s amazed they haven’t fallen out.

He considers arguing, but just because he didn’t notice he was gone for her for six years doesn’t mean he wasn’t. “Yeah, basically.”

“You could go see her,” Octavia points out. “You know, big romantic gesture. Like in _Love, Actually_.”

“You got the part where she has a girlfriend, right?”

“For a few months. Not, like, ten years of stupid sexual tension. It’s hard to compete with that.”

“Maybe next year,” he says. “Those grand romantic gestures take planning.”

*

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure,” Bellamy tells Octavia, for the twentieth time. “If I get lonely, I’ll go hang out with Miller and Monty. I knew you were spending Christmas with Lincoln. I’m not upset. I’m saving time off, it’s great.”

“Bell.”

“Seriously,” he says, giving her a smile. “I don’t care. You know Christmas isn’t a big thing for me. I’ll watch Netflix and get Chinese and enjoy a three-day weekend.”

“You could come with me.”

“Holy fuck, no way,” he says, and she laughs. “You can meet your boyfriend’s family alone.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes, throws her arms around him. “Don’t mope, okay? Call Clarke on Christmas, I bet she’ll Skype with you or something, you know she misses you too. And don’t open your present until Christmas morning! There are _rules_ , Bell.”

“Have fun, O.”

He’s not lying; he really doesn’t mind that Octavia is leaving. He’s even mostly over Clarke not coming back. It sucks, but it’s not like she never wants to see him again or anything. It’s also kind of broadly unfortunate that he’s in love with her, given she lives across the country, but he’s probably happier knowing. He should have noticed sooner. Now he knows, and he can deal with it.

So, yeah, it’s Christmas Eve and he’s definitely not moping. He’s playing Civ 5 and texting with Octavia about how weird Lincoln’s family is and not moping.

It’s just that he texted Clarke _Merry Christmas Eve_ four hours ago, and he hasn’t had any response. She’s probably celebrating. With her _girlfriend_. They’re probably caroling or something else wholesome and romantic. At least there’s no snow in California either. It’s warm and non-Christmas-y everywhere.

His phone buzzes, and he glances down to see Clarke has texted, _It’s looking up_ , which is weird, and he’s in the middle of replying _???_ when his doorbell rings.

He sends the text and puts the phone aside, going to the door with some wariness. He doesn’t get a lot of visitors. Every time someone comes to his apartment, he kind of assumes it’s a trap.

But Clarke is on the doorstep, tanned and smiling and somehow more gorgeous than he remembered. This is probably what happens when you figure out you’re in love with someone: they get hotter and you forget how to talk.

“Hi,” she says.

He recovers enough to pull her into his arms, and she clings back, holding him tight. She smells like sunshine and damp cloth, and he buries his nose against her hair.

“Hi,” he says. “What happened?”

“Where do I start?” she asks, muffled against his shoulder. “Hi.”

“We already covered that.” He pulls her inside without letting go, closes the door and gets her to the couch. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

She smiles, and she looks worn out, but _happy_. And she’s here. “Water would be great, thanks.”

He gets water and finds some almonds and peels an orange; he doesn’t really have much food in the house, but he can _try_. Clarke’s shed her coat and settled into the couch when he gets back, looking completely content with her eyes closed and her legs tucked under her.

“So, seriously, what are you doing here?”

“I got a new job,” she says. “I gave my two weeks’ notice and yesterday was my last day with my shitty boss. Merry Christmas to me.”

“So, not a last-minute thing. Visiting.”

“I didn’t think I’d hear about the new job before Christmas, but when I did–” She shrugs. “I wanted to surprise you?” she offers, sounding like she’s not really sure.

“Mission accomplished.”

She opens one eye. “Sorry. It seemed like a good idea. You aren’t–I can go.”

“No, fuck,” he says, laughing. “I’m really happy to see you. I just–I can’t believe you’re here.”

“But in a good way.”

“In a good way. So–new job?”

“Yeah. It’s with a media start-up, there isn’t actually a physical office. I’ve got a month of training with my coworker in California and then I can be anywhere I want. I, um. I kind of miss the east coast.”

It takes him another minute to recover, just staring at her. She smiles a little, almost shy, and he feels a grin break out on his own face. “The east coast misses you too.”

“Cool,” she says, ducking her head.

“Your, uh. I assume your girlfriend isn’t happy about it,” he says. It is not at all subtle, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“She wasn’t happy when I told her I was planning a Christmas surprise for someone who wasn’t her,” Clarke says. “We broke up last week.”

“Sorry.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really? I hope not.”

“Yeah, no,” he says. “Not even a little.” He offers her a smile. “You want to watch Netflix?”

“Not even a little,” she teases. He leans in at the same time she reaches up, and he has no idea what’s wrong with him, that he hasn’t been kissing Clarke every Christmas Eve for the last six years. He really should have been more on top of that.

By the time he pulls back to collect himself, he’s got her pressed down on the couch, warm and willing beneath him. “Uh,” he says, flushing. “I missed you.”

Clarke laughs, tugs him back in just to hold him. “Yeah. I missed you too.”

*

Octavia calls on Christmas morning. “Are you moping? How much are you moping?”

Clarke is sitting at his table, dressed in nothing but one of his t-shirts. He’d tried to send her home to her parents last night, but apparently she already told them she was sleeping over. It’s a little embarrassing that her parents know about them, when _he_ barely knew about them, but totally worth it.

“I’m not moping,” he assures her, finding eggs in the fridge. “I’m having a great Christmas. Everything is awesome.”

There’s a pause as Octavia tries to figure out if he’s being sarcastic; Bellamy kisses Clarke’s hair and gets breakfast started. “That sounded genuine,” she finally says.

“Yeah, well. Surprise visit from my girlfriend,” he says.

Octavia’s squeal is so loud even Clarke winces, and he gives her the phone primarily because he is now deaf in one ear. But it’s nice too, hearing Clarke filling in Octavia on the beats of her life–new job, looking for apartments in Boston, moving back in a month or two, depending on how her finances work out.

He gets the phone back once breakfast is done.

“You are so lucky she did something, you never would have,” Octavia says, and Bellamy smiles.

“You’re right. I am very, very lucky.”

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Bell.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Merry Christmas.”


	47. CLARKE/RAVEN Tech Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Raven/Clarke - raven works in tech support and Clarke might possibly call more than is needed
> 
> For [tockae](http://tockae.tumblr.com/)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has porn, just FYI.

Raven doesn’t know what makes Clarke Griffin decide to like her. Although, to be fair, she doesn’t really know what makes her decide to like Clarke Griffin either. But it feels like something Clarke started, because she keeps making the first move.

Not that the actual first move is really much of a move. The actual first move is Clarke calling up tech support in the middle of the night on Sunday and Raven being the one to answer, because she’s the only one who works that shift.

“Student help desk, this is Raven,” she says. She no longer tries to sound enthused or upbeat; no one calling the student help desk at 1:45 Sunday night/Monday morning cares if Raven is sufficiently peppy.

“Hi, there is something wrong with my laptop and I cannot figure out what. I did try turning it off and turning it back on, before you ask.”

Raven smiles a little. “What’s it doing?”

“The screen is–jumping, I guess?”

“Jumping?”

“It’s hard to describe. The display is skipping and blurring, so I can’t really read what I’m writing. Which is obviously really good for my paper right now.”

“Did you hit it?”

“Hit it?”

“I know violence isn’t supposed to be the answer,” Raven says, spinning her chair around. “But sometimes, violence is the answer.”

There’s a pause, and then a noise, and then the girl on the phone swears softly under her breath. “I can’t believe that worked.”

Raven grins. “I am a paid professional and amazing genius.”

The girl huffs out a laugh. “Thanks. Really. I was tearing out my hair.”

“No problem.” For reasons she doesn’t totally understand, she says, “I need your name to document the call.” It’s technically true, but she usually doesn’t care. No one cares. One report, she put the student name as _Jean-Luc Picard_ , just to see if her supervisor would mention it, and he never has. Her last few have been Battlestar Galactica characters.

Honestly, she’s just kind of curious.

“Clarke Griffin,” says Clarke. “I’m a junior.”

“Good luck with the paper, Clarke.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the help. Have a nice night.”

The next Sunday, when Raven picks up the phone with her standard greeting, Clarke just says, “Oh, good, it’s you. I called last week? You told me to hit my computer?”

“Yeah, hi, Clarke,” says Raven, and wonders if it’s creepy that she remembers her name. “Is it being weird again?”

“No. Can you help with network printers?”

“I can definitely help with network printers.”

“Great, you’re a lifesaver.”

Clarke is, in many ways, the perfect caller. She recognizes that nothing that’s happening is Raven’s fault, and might actually be her own, and she’s informed enough about general tech stuff to have tried basic troubleshooting before she calls. And she swears creatively and chats with Raven while she’s waiting for the printer to reboot.

She’s an art major, she’s taking a philosophy course, and she’s a chronic procrastinator.

“Which is why I’m having a printer emergency at one am on a Sunday night,” she says.

“Yeah, I was gonna say.”

*

The next week, she’s updated Firefox.

“Everything is dead,” she says, like she’s actually in mourning. “ _Everything_. All my porn bookmarks were in there.”

Raven snorts. “I promise we’ll get your porn bookmarks back.”

“It’s really hard to find good girl/girl stuff,” Clarke says, with this kind of–it sounds deliberately casual to Raven, like she’s testing the waters. “A lot of it is really gross and obviously intended for straight dudes who have no idea what queer girls actually like.”

“I would believe that,” Raven says, careful. “Straight dudes ruin everything.” She pauses, because, okay, she hasn’t ever looked at girl/girl porn, but she’s not _opposed_ , and she doesn’t want this disembodied voice she is kind of starting to like to think that she is. “So, uh, wait makes girl/girl porn good? If I was thinking of getting into it.”

They talk for about an hour, until Raven’s shift is over, and she has to go home and have some quality time with herself after because–wow.

Clarke Griffin knows a lot about what girls like.

*

The next week, Clarke opens with, “How are you with microwaves?”

“Sorry?”

“I was trying to make popcorn in the common room and the microwave is fucked up.”

“Do you have friends?” Raven asks.

“None who are awake right now. And you already said you never get calls on Sundays, so–microwaves?”

Raven finds herself smiling. “No clue. But I’ve got google and a solid background in mechanics. What’s it doing?”

*

“What do you do when something in your life breaks on a weekday?” Raven asks the next time she calls. According to Clarke, her laptop is doing the thing again.

“Hope it can wait until Sunday.”

Raven snorts. “No, but really.”

“Really,” says Clarke, and Raven swallows hard.

*

Then, one Sunday, on her way to her shift, Raven runs into Clarke.

Not that she knows that, at first; she just knows it’s the hot blonde from the second floor. Raven doesn’t have a lot of experience being attracted to girls, but she has a soft spot for the hot blonde from the second floor.

“Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t see you. You okay?”

The hot blonde lights up. “Raven?”

“Yeah?” she says. They have never talked. Raven would remember.

“It’s Clarke. I, uh. I call you a lot?”

“I know,” Raven says, dumbly. “I mean, I know who Clarke is. You are. I didn’t know you–”

Clarke grins. “No, I got it. I didn’t know who you were either.”

Raven wets her lips. “Sorry, I’m–actually going to work.”

“Yeah, no, of course. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

Raven raises her eyebrows. “You’re already planning to have a technology failure?”

“I always do,” says Clarke. “Have a good shift.”

She’s itchy, waiting for the call. It feels like something has changed. Clarke feels _possible_.

The call comes at 2:30, late in her shift. Later than usual.

“Hi,” she says, sounding breathless.

“Hey, Clarke. What is it this time?”

“My vibrator broke.”

Raven swallows hard. She has a vivid image of Clarke, naked, frustrated, _needy_. Fuck.

“New batteries?” she says, voice coming out even, miraculously.

“Nope.”

“Shake it?”

“Nope.”

“I’m out of ideas. And I think if I google that at work, I’ll get fired.”

“I figured,” says Clarke. “You can do something else for me, though.”

“Yeah?”

“I could use a consultation with my orgasm,” she says, and then groans. “That sounded better in my head. God, just–please, Raven. I’ve been thinking about you for weeks. It’s not just me, right?”

Raven lets out a shaky breath. “Hot blonde from the second floor and bi girl who keeps calling me with made-up tech issues being the same person was pretty exciting for me, yeah.”

“So, what are you going to come do to me when your shift is over?”

“Tell me what you’re wearing first. This is phone sex, set the scene. Were you really using your vibrator before you called?”

“No, just my fingers.”

“Fuck,” says Raven.

“I’m still wearing my underwear and my bra. They’re really cute–pale blue, lacy, awesome. I want you to see.”

There is no one else in the building, no one even close. There’s no shift after hers.

She undoes the button on her jeans and slides them off.

“I didn’t dress up for you.”

“You went right to work. I figured you probably didn’t change first.”

“I’ve never–I haven’t ever done anything with girls.”

“But you want to?”

“Yeah.”

“So–what would you do?”

Raven wets her lips. “You mean, what am I going to do? I’m off in half an hour.”

“Room 204,” says Clarke.

“I want to make out with you,” she blurts out, and feels a little sad. It _is_ a little sad, as dirty talk goes. But Clarke hums her approval, and Raven rubs her clit through her underwear. “I want to watch porn while you tell me it’s unrealistic and fuck me with your fingers.”

“I’d show you realistic porn while I fuck you with my fingers.” She makes a choked noise. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. You’re gorgeous. I can’t wait to get my mouth on you.”

“Where?” Raven asks, pushing her underwear aside so she can stroke herself directly.

“Everywhere. But if you’re asking if I’m going to eat you out, the answer is yes.”

Raven laughs, but it’s shaky as her fingers slide into her slick folds, teasing herself like she knows Clarke will. Clarke will make her beg. “I want to try that too. I can learn, right?”

“Yeah,” says Clarke, sounding breathless herself. “That’s what the realistic porn is for.”

“I did this last time,” Raven admits. “After you told me about lesbian porn.”

“Good. That’s what I was going for.”

Raven’s getting too close to say anything, so she just lets herself moan and gasp into the phone as she fucks herself with her fingers. Clarke whimpers, eggs her with soft words until Raven comes in hot waves, aftershocks racing through her, leaving her breathless and shaking.

She hears Clarke come only a minute later, and she strokes herself in time with the sounds, sending little jolts of pleasure through her clit, thinking of how good it’ll be in person.

“So, see you in a few minutes?” Clarke asks, once she’s recovered.

Raven glances at the clock; her shift is almost over. “Room 204?”

“It’s a date.”

Clarke answers her door in nothing but her cute underwear and tugs Raven in for the best kiss of her life before she’s said anything.

“You have the weirdest ways to pick up girls,” Raven mutters, groping her fucking _amazing_ breasts.

“Thanks,” says Clarke. “It’s really working for me.”


	48. Vaguely Downward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke + fallen angels AU.
> 
> For [ariadneskywalker](http://ariadneskywalker.tumblr.com/)!

Of course Clarke knew about Bellamy. Everyone knew about Bellamy. He was a cautionary tale. He’d rebelled, and he’d fallen. That’s how it works. He’d tried to wage war on heaven, and he’d lost. That’s why you don’t do it.

She hadn’t really thought about _him_. He’s not the only angel to fall, but he’s the most famous of them, after Lucifer. And he didn’t get a kingdom of his own to rule. No one knows what happened to him, honestly.

But then Clarke is on Earth, minding her own business, and he snarls, “Fuck off.”

She doesn’t know it’s him, of course. Not at first. He’s just the man behind the counter at the coffee shop where Monty Green is reading, having a shitty Christmas because he and his best friend had a falling out and his parents disowned him for being gay and his life is basically terrible. He’s not an assignment–the queer kids tend to fall through the cracks, not because there’s any actual heavenly ban on helping queer kids, just because the management hasn’t really gotten its act together and figured out queer kids exist yet–but she knows he and one of the other baristas here are _perfect_ for each other, and he just needs a little help.

It had seemed like it would be easy.

“Excuse me?” she asks, blinking. She can’t get a read on the man behind the counter, doesn’t see the weaving lines of possibility that humans give off. Instead, she just sees–tan skin, freckles, curly dark hair. Like she’s looking at another angel, but no one she knows.

“Get out,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why?” she asks. “Are you–”

“Whatever you’re doing here, stop doing it. I didn’t sign up for anyone spying on me.”

It’s then that she sees the name tag on his chest, _Bellamy_ , and she stares at him. “You’re– _the_   _Bellamy_?”

He considers her, still scowling, but his shoulders have relaxed a little. “You didn’t know,” he says.

“We never met,” she says. “Before you fell.”

He considers, but nods. “No, we didn’t. And you’re not here to check up on me?”

She worries her lip, glances over at Monty in his booth. He has earbuds in, and it’s quiet. “I’m here for him.”

“Why?”

“He’s having a rough year,” says Clarke. “I’m here for a Christmas miracle.”

Bellamy snorts. “Holy shit, you are not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t seriously go around making _Christmas miracles_ now, do you? I had a flaming sword, you know. _Flaming sword_.”

“We don’t as a rule,” she says. “It depends on your division.”

“And your division is _warm and fuzzy feelings_?”

“No. My division is the sick and suffering,” she admits. “And it’s great!” She probably says it with a little too much enthusiasm, because Bellamy raises his eyebrows. “It is. Really. It’s great. It’s just–sometimes it’s hard, giving hope about the afterlife to the dying. I’d rather give people good lives while they’re on Earth. And–we’re still a little behind on taking care of little queer kids. So I check up on them. In my spare time.”

“Queer’s the kind of thing you can only say if you are it,” Bellamy says. “Just a head’s up.”

“I know, and I am,” she says.

“Huh. They’re not banishing you for that these days?”

“I’m attracted to men and women,” she says. “But I’m not acting on it.”

“Yeah, uh, not to be a corrupting influence or anything, but pleasures of the flesh? Awesome. You should definitely act on them.”

Clarke flushes. “Thanks for letting me know. So–yeah. I’m trying to set the poor kid over there up with one of the other baristas. Dark skin, facial hair, wears knit caps?”

“Miller,” Bellamy supplies. He huffs. “You’re here to set up Miller with earbud kid?”

“Earbud kid? He cannot be the only one who wears earbuds. I see them all the time. They’re a thing.”

“Nerdy Asian kid feels judgmental and racist,” he says. “What are you drinking?”

Clarke frowns. “I’m not drinking anything,” she says.

He cracks a smile, finally. He has a nice smile. She hadn’t known what to expect, from a fallen angel, but–he’s not scary at all. Not _really_. “You’re at the counter of a coffee shop,” he says. “This is when you order a drink.”

“You’re not kicking me out?”

“Not yet,” he says. “But I’ve got my eye on you, angel.”

“It’s Clarke,” she says. “My name is Clarke.”

He nods. “You already got mine. But–nice to meet you, Clarke.”

“Yeah,” she says, and finds it’s true. “Nice to meet you too.”

*

“How long has it been?” Clarke asks. “Since you fell?”

“It’s complicated,” he says.

“It is?”

He drums his fingers on the counter top. Clarke is sure she’s not supposed to be spending time with him; helping Monty Green is a valid extra-curricular activity, but hanging out with fallen angels is not.

“You’d heard of me,” he says, in lieu of answering.

“Yeah. You’re pretty famous.”

He lets out a soft snort of laughter. “Great. What’s–why did they say I fell? What do you think happened?”

“You rebelled against heaven,” she says, shrugging. “The usual.”

“My mother gave into temptation,” he says. “I was–young. Pretty hot-headed.”

“Are you trying to say you’re not anymore?” she asks, and he grins.

“Do you want to hear the story or not?” he teases, and Clarke hops up on the counter, attentive.

“Yes, please.”

He goes over to the fridge and finds eggs; he’s always cooking for her, like he thinks immortal, heavenly beings don’t eat enough. She doesn’t have to eat at all, but it always smells amazing, so she always does. She likes eating. And coffee. And–just those two things. Nothing else. Not him.

“So, my mom. She met this human she liked. And–you know, one thing lead to another. I assume you’re familiar with the theory, if not the practice.”

“I know how babies are made, Bellamy.” Angels used to reproduce with each other, the generation before the two of them. Now, there are enough, and it’s all heavenly virtue, all the time.

“Just checking.” He grabs the skillet and starts frying up butter. “So, yeah. My mom had a daughter. Octavia. This–” He smiles a little. “This tiny, red, crying _thing_. And she was perfect. And of course, that’s–my mom fell. Quietly. Just for having O. And it broke her. She gave up. Died of grief. And there was this little baby, all alone. I fucking _begged_ for them to let her stay with me, but they were just–“ His fists clench. “They were just going to let her die too, and that’s bullshit.”

“So you took your flaming sword and rose up against heaven?”

He smiles a little. “Nah. I just left. Took my sister and went to raise her with Lucifer.”

“Really?”

He grins. “Hey, I needed somewhere they wouldn’t kick us out. And he didn’t. I did, uh–I had to stab someone to get them to let me leave. But I think he made it. I guess it got turned into a big deal.”

“How did you end up on Earth?”

“My sister,” he says. “She came up here a few years ago, fell in love with a human, decided–she’d be human too. I’m still making up my mind, but–I don’t know what I’ll do if she dies and I’m still around, so I’ll probably do it too.”

“Can you do that?” she asks. “Just–be human?”

“They let her do it, they’ll probably let me.” He cuts the omelet he made in two, gives half to her. “You ever think eternity sounds like way too long?”

“Sometimes,” she admits, and it feels dangerous.

“Yeah,” he says. “I thought you might.”

*

Bellamy is making friends with Monty so he can hang out with Miller, which is Clarke’s excuse for spending time with Bellamy. She’s _sure_ she’s not supposed to be. She knows she isn’t. There are no official rules about associating with fallen angels, but it’s just sort of–it’s so obviously not allowed that she doubts anyone ever felt they had to say it.

The real reason is just that she likes him. That he’s easy to talk to, funny, interesting, that she likes his smile and she’s curious about him. That he makes her feel–warm and safe and comfortable in a way she never has before. In a way that she instinctively knows she shouldn’t want.

She meets his sister, who gives her a stern lecture about how heaven had better _leave Bellamy alone_ , and turns thoughtful when Clarke promises no one else knows, she just likes his coffee and his company.

“No one likes his company,” she says, squinting at Clarke. She doesn’t look like a normal human, but she doesn’t look like Bellamy either. Clarke’s finding all sorts of new things, now that she’s met Bellamy.

“Well, I do,” she says, and Octavia just nods.

“Good.”

She tells herself it’s nothing right up until she has to tell a dying girl, a girl who’s only _four_ , that something better is waiting for her, that she’s going to a better place. And it is, Clarke knows it is, but she just–

She hates her job. She hates most of her life. And as soon as she guides the girl into heaven, she goes to Bellamy and collapses into his arms.

“Hey,” he says, alarmed. “ _Hey_. Come on, Clarke.” He rubs soothing circles over her back. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s fine.”

She doesn’t totally follow what happens next; they were in the coffee shop, but he must pick her up, carry her upstairs to his apartment, and then he’s sitting on the couch with her in his lap, holding her, and Clarke is sobbing against his neck because this is what she wants. Just this. And she knows if she says that, it’s over. But he’s the best thing that’s happened to her in a more than a thousand years.

“Talk to me,” he says, and Clarke does, telling him about the girl, and all the other kids, how alone she feels, how lost. She talks until she feels wrung out, and he just holds her closer and says, “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve had it worse.”

“Yeah, but I’m happy. And you’re not.”

“I’m happy when I’m with you,” she says, and the breath he lets out is shaky.

“Don’t say things you can’t take back,” he tells her, but he doesn’t let go. He just presses his lips against her forehead. “Come on, you need sleep. You can have the bed.”

“I don’t need sleep. I categorically do not need sleep.”

“I bet you’ll like sleep, if you try it,” he corrects, and when he tries to leave her alone in his bedroom, she refuses to let go. He sighs, as if it’s a great burden, and strips off his shirt and jeans, crawling in next to her mostly naked, all warm, tan skin and firm arms around her.

“This is how it happens, isn’t it?” she asks, and falls asleep before he can answer.

*

In the morning, she’s still in his arms, but she pulls back enough to study his face. Clarke knows a great deal about aesthetic attraction, has been abstractly interested in pretty faces.

The feeling in the pit of her stomach when she looks at Bellamy is new, but not as new as it should be.

“Something on my face?” he asks, without opening his eyes.

“What?”

He smiles, cracks one eye open and then the other. “You’re staring at me.”

“Does it hurt?”

“What?”

“When you fall?”

“It didn’t for me. But I decided to. It hurt my mom. She got cast out. But if you–”

She presses her mouth against his, and she doesn’t fall. He doesn’t respond either, and she pulls back, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but he slides his hand into her hair.

“Don’t be,” he says. “But–be sure.”

She’s known him for an infinitesimal amount of time. But she’s been unhappy for as long as she can remember.

“I’m sure,” she says, and he pulls her back, takes control of the kiss, and Clarke loses herself in his mouth, his hands, in _him_.

There must have just been a thread holding her. She must have been so _close_. She barely even feels it, when she falls.

“That did it,” she murmurs against Bellamy’s mouth. “You groping my breast. That was the last straw.”

He laughs and tugs her shirt all the way off. “I always knew I was good with my hands,” he teases, and Clarke pulls him in for another kiss.

*

It’s Monty Green’s best Christmas ever, although, in the end, Clarke is pretty sure Bellamy gets most of the credit for that.

He gets most of the credit for it being her best Christmas ever too.

“I’m so good at spreading good cheer,” he says, grinning, when she tells him. “They should take me back.”

“No, they shouldn’t,” she says, wrapping her arms around his bicep.

He kisses her hair. “No,” he agrees. “They shouldn’t.”


	49. Something the Cat Dragged In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bellarke + you're clearly upset so i'm trying very hard not to laugh but you look ridiculous
> 
> For [carrieeve](http://carrieeve.tumblr.com/)!

As a rule, Bellamy tries not to laugh at people when they show up at his door in obvious need of assistance. As an RA, this happens to him fairly frequently, and as an RA, it is his duty to be helpful, not mocking.

But, god, it is _really hard_ not to laugh at Clarke.

“Don’t even start,” she says, holding up one finger.

Bellamy looks her up and down, biting back on his grin. She’s got what appears to be red paint on her, and feathers stuck to the paint. Her glasses are half covered in both the paint and the feathers, her hair is a mess, her clothes are ruined, and–he is not going to laugh. He’s not. Something has clearly gone seriously wrong in her life.

“Please,” she says, with just enough desperation in her tone to snap his focus back to the matter at hand.

“So, seriously, I’m flattered that I’m the person you come to with–whatever is happening right now,” he says, stepping out of her way to let her into his room. She’s not actually one of his charges, just a friend of his sister’s and, okay, of his too, so it’s weirder that she came to him, but at least he gets to appreciate this moment. “But why?”

“Because I don’t want to go all the way back across campus looking like this,” she says. “Fuck. I’m going to kill Jasper.”

“This was Jasper?” he asks, offering her a roll of paper towels. She manages to get her glasses mostly cleaned off and gives him a smile that’s a lot more watery than he would have expected.

“Apparently he and Monty are involved in a prank war and I walked into the middle of it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. And I remembered you have your own bathroom, so–” She bites her lip. “Can I clean up and borrow some clothes?”

She still seems a lot more upset than he would have thought for just–okay, maybe there isn’t anything _just_ about getting paint and feathers dumped on you, but it’s going to wash out of her hair, and Jasper and Monty are going to pay her back for the clothes, and he figured she’d find it at least a little funny. In an absurd way.

“I don’t know, that’s a really good look for you,” he tries out, teasing a little, plucking a feather off her hair. “Tarred and feathered, but red. Red’s your color.”

“Bell,” she says, and she never calls him Bell unless something is seriously wrong.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “You can use my bathroom. Do you need anything special? I’ve got shampoo and soap in there, and–” He roots around his dresser. “Here’s a t-shirt and sweatpants you can wear, and I don’t care about this shirt, you can use it if you need to scrub the paint out of your hair or whatever. It’s mostly holes at this point anyway.”

Her mouth tugs into a small smile. “Thanks,” she says, and slides into the bathroom. There are a few feathers and drops of paint on his floor, and if Jasper and Monty don’t clean every part of this out of their rooms, he’ll help Clarke murder them.

He grabs his phone and texts Octavia: _Did something happen to Clarke?_

Her reply is almost instantaneous: _No??? idk she had a test??? I haven’t seen her since this morning, why???_

_There are poor children in the world who have no question marks, O, don’t waste them_ , he texts back, and then adds, _She’s over here, I guess she had a bad day. I’ll let you know if I find anything out_.

While he’s waiting for her to finish up in the shower, he grabs milk out of his fridge and puts it in the microwave for hot chocolate, and roots around the box full of candy he got for Christmas to see if he has anything she likes. He and Clarke have barely known each other for a year, and they don’t hang out as much as he’d like, but–he likes her. If she’s feeling bad, he wants to make her feel better. And, if he’s honest, he’s really glad that she came to _him_ to cheer her up. He would really love to be the guy who can make Clarke feel better.

He heats the cocoa up for another thirty seconds when she finally turns off the water, and he’s got the mug ready for her when she leaves the bathroom in a cloud of steam, her hair mostly clean, swimming a little in his t-shirt and sweats. He has to smile, and she scowls at once.

“Seriously, if you laugh at me, I’ll strangle you.”

“I’m not laughing,” he says, giving her the hot chocolate. Honestly, he was mostly thinking she looked really cute in his clothes, but that’s probably just as strangle-worthy as laughing at her, so he’s not going to mention it either. His very small, very stupid, very hopeless crush on Clarke is not relevant, now or ever. She likes girls, and he may be a dick, but he’s not the kind of dick who hits on girls who aren’t interested. “Sit down and drink your hot chocolate.”

She settles in on the futon, cradling the mug in her hands. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” He sits at the edge of the bed, mostly across from her, and sips from his own mug. “So, what else?”

“What do you mean, what else?”

“You’re clearly having a shitty day, do you want to talk about it?”

She smiles, just a little. “Octavia said when you were kids, you always–took sorrow on yourself.”

“That’s pretty poetical, for her. Moving.”

“Well, she was pretty drunk. She said you’d always be sad and never show it, so she wouldn’t be sad. So she wouldn’t have to be.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“I do that too. And I thought–never mind, it’s stupid.”

It’s impossible to not get up and sit next to her. He doesn’t know how to do anything else. “It’s not. Come on, tell me.” He nudges her shoulder. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to laugh at you.”

“For what?”

“I do remember how you looked when you came in here. I can still see it when I close my eyes.”

She cracks a smile, ducks her head on a small laugh. “You’re such a fucking dick. I was vulnerable.”

“You were covered in paint and feathers. I’m not a saint, you know.”

“I know.” She leans against him, tentative. “It’s been two years since my dad died. Two years today.”

“Oh,” he says. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“And last year, I went to Finn for, you know. Comfort or whatever. And that’s when I found out about Raven. So that was–great.”

Bellamy never got the exact details of the Clarke/Raven breakup; he and Clarke hadn’t started being actual friends until after. He actually has no idea what she’s talking about. “Finn?”

Clarke frowns. “Her boyfriend who was also my boyfriend? The shittiest breakup ever for both of us?”

“I thought you and Raven broke up,” he says, mind whirling. She likes guys too. Or has in the past. Which–really does not matter at all right now. She’s having a shitty day. He can think about what that means later. “Which really doesn’t matter right now, sorry. What can I do?”

Clarke smiles and shifts closer to him. “I just want a hug, dumbass.”

Bellamy doesn’t need to be told twice. He wraps his arms around her, tugging her close. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s just not my favorite day,” she admits. “And I had this test for this prof I fucking _hate_.”

“The poli sci guy?” he asks, and she nods. Bellamy hates that guy too; Clarke has ranted about him before, at length. The class has no prerequisites and he keeps asking them to compare political systems they’ve studied to ones they haven’t, and when Clarke complained, he told her she _should_ have just gotten this background knowledge from high school. Which, as far as Bellamy is concerned, is drastically overestimating the American public school system. “Let me guess, more background knowledge you didn’t have?”

“I don’t even want to talk about it. I’m just going to murder him, there’s no other option. I wanted to get just–one good thing today, and then I realized how stupid that was, I turned around to go home, and I walked right into Jasper and Monty’s prank war. So I had to come here anyway.”

Bellamy props his chin on her head to think that over. He assumed she’d just been hanging out with Jasper and Monty when she tripped whatever she tripped, and she wanted to take advantage of his bathroom. “We can do at least one good thing,” he says. “That’s not stupid. What do you want to do? You should have just come down. We can probably do two good things.”

Her snort of laughter is harsh. “It _was_ stupid, trust me.”

“Clarke.”

She pulls back to glare at him, fierce, poking him in the chest with one sharp finger. “It _was_. I don’t even know what I was thinking. I was going to come here and confess my love like a stupid fucking romcom, and I was outside the door before I remembered how shitty a memory that would be when you turned me down. So don’t–”

“I thought you were gay,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“I would have asked you out, but I never saw you go for guys. I thought you were gay, and your shitty breakup with Raven was a shitty breakup _with Raven_.” He wets his lips. “I wouldn’t turn you down.”

Clarke stares at him, jaw dropped, and he tugs her wrist, gentle, until she sets down her hot chocolate and wraps herself around him, burying her face against his chest. “This was a disaster,” she says.

He presses a kiss to her hair. “You missed some paint.”

“Thanks, that really helps.”

“It was the first part of a pick-up line. Next I volunteer to come help you make sure you got it all. If you’re, uh–I’m allowed to hit on you in your time of emotional vulnerability, right? I got the impression you wanted that.”

“I want that,” Clarke agrees. “Do you want to get dinner sometime?”

He tugs her closer. “I want to get dinner a lot, yeah.”

Later, when he tells the story of how they got together, he skips all the emotional vulnerability and details of Clarke’s shitty day and just goes with, “She showed up at my door covered in paint and feathers and I laughed until I cried, which is apparently what she’s into.” Clarke kicks him, he kisses her temple, and people think they’re adorable.

But on their anniversary he makes her hot chocolate and they talk about her dad, and, granted, he does give her a bouquet of feathers wrapped in red tissue paper, but he’s pretty sure that’s cute and charming.

“Almost,” she says, but she can’t help laughing herself.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s about the best I could hope for, honestly.”

Clarke puts the bouquet aside to kiss him, a smile still on her lips, and Bellamy thinks he’s doing really well with this, all things considered.


	50. Paid In Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I would love to see your take on Bellamy and Clarke in Wen Spencer's A Brother's Price ' verse. Maybe with Clarke as an eldest (but Bellamy too, which is like unheard of, a boy being born first).
> 
> For [fivelittlebirdies](http://fivelittlebirdies.tumblr.com/)!

It is, Clarke knows, a reckless, stupid, completely impossible plan. It cannot possibly _work_. She knows all about Bellamy Blake– _Eldest Blake_ –a firstborn and miraculously a boy, reported as a girl for years, raised as one, simply to protect him until he had enough sisters to protect him. A boy who rose to be head of his family, when sickness took everyone but himself and one of his sisters, a boy who succeeded in gaining independence and fought off countless women who have tried to claim him. Who still lives, impossibly, on a farm with just the one sister, taking care of himself.

Maybe that’s what appeals to her. Clarke lost her own family too, has almost no one. No sisters to consult with, no mothers. Just her, alone, with very little to offer in a match. It would be nice, to feel sufficient with so few people around her.

But Eldest Blake has had every offer he possibly could want, and he’s turned them all down. It’s possible he plans to never marry, or plans to only let himself be taken by force, if at all.

Or maybe, he’ll listen to Clarke.

A girl stops Clarke as soon as she crosses the property line–Octavia Blake, holding a shotgun, fierce-eyed. Clarke raises her hands in surrender.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I’m here to see Eldest Blake,” says Clarke. “Is he available?”

The girl doesn’t lower her weapon, but Clarke can see a slight release of tension in her shoulders; Clarke assumes she approves of Clarke recognizing Bellamy as Eldest. She’s sure plenty of women don’t.

“Not it I can’t search you,” says Octavia.

“Of course,” says Clarke, gives up her gun and knife and lets the other woman make sure she has nothing else.

Octavia regards her for another long moment. “Name?”

“Eldest Griffin,” she says, and then adds, “Clarke.”

Octavia considers another minute and then says, “He’s in the field. If you touch him, I’ll shoot you and be within my rights.”

“You will,” Clarke agrees. “I won’t touch him.”

Bellamy Blake doesn’t look much like a boy. Not that Clarke has a lot of experience with boys, but his hair is short, a tangled mess on his head, and his skin is dark and freckled. Clarke isn’t one of those girls who loses her head at the very thought of men–she likes the company of women as well as men, never lacks for companionship, doesn’t have the desperation she’s seen in some people–but he’s quite striking, despite his best efforts.

“How can I help you?” Bellamy asks, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, scowling.

“I want to marry you,” Clarke says.

He actually laughs, surprised. “Really?”

“I assume you get that a lot,” she says. “It can’t be new.”

“Honestly? Most people talk to Octavia first, or don’t bother with proposals. Or they talk around it. Try it flatter me, like they’ll fool me into thinking they want something else.” He cocks his head. “And why should I marry you? I don’t even know who you are.”

“Clarke Griffin,” she says. “I’d offer my hand, but I’ve been told I’ll be shot if I touch you.”

“Thanks, O,” says Bellamy, smile wry. He considers. “Griffin,” he says. “I’m sorry about your family.”

“I’m sorry about yours.”

“I’m not,” he says, with a shrug. “Not really. I didn’t want them dead, but–well, I can’t say I’m not benefiting.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“So, you have no family and absolutely nothing to offer in a marriage,” he says.

“Some money. Probably enough for a decent brother’s price. But then I’d have to keep him, and I don’t know if I could. You’ve proved you’re capable of taking care of yourself.”

“I am,” he agrees. He looks at his sister. “What about O?”

“What about her? What were you planning to do? Trade yourself for a husband for her? She’d have the same problem I would.”

“I’m not sure. I thought I could bring her,” he admits. “If I married.”

“So why haven’t you? I know you’ve had no lack of offers.”

“Because I don’t want to marry,” he says. “I don’t want wives who will treat me like wives treat husbands. I have a farm of my own and a right hand that serves what needs I have well enough. I don’t want to give up my freedom. And you haven’t given me any reason to give it up for you.”

“I never asked you to,” Clarke says. She gives him a wry smile. “I might have come here to ask you to let me move in with you. You would get almost nothing out of the arrangement. Except me.”

“You think you’re very appealing,” he says, but he’s amused.

“I think you’ve proved up and down you don’t need a wife. I assume you don’t care if the Blake line ends with you. I–” She sighs. “I’m tired of everyone in Mayfair looking at me like I’m useless, like I’m someone to be pitied. I’m not. I want a family because I don’t like being alone. You seem like the simplest solution.”

“At least she’s not romancing you, Bell,” Octavia says, sounding amused herself. And they aren’t running her off the property yet. It’s going as well as she could have hoped.

“You can stay for a few days,” Bellamy says, at last. “And see if you’re suited.”

“To what?”

“The farm. Me. Octavia.” He shrugs, easy. Not even a little worried about having a strange woman in his house.

After two days, Clarke can see why he wasn’t concerned. She’s so exhausted by the time that she’s done for the day that she just collapses into Octavia’s bed, while she and her brother share his room. But she works in the fields and helps with the cooking and the housework and _likes it_ , for all she’s unfamiliar with the tasks. She’s always hated being idle.

After another day, Octavia deliberately leaves her alone with Bellamy.

“This is really what you want,” he says, not quite a question, but not sure either.

“I’ve never–” She shrugs. “I think it would be good, yes. I like the farm. I like your sister. I like _you_.”

“You might be the first woman I’ve ever met who I’d believe wouldn’t mind having me for a husband,” he admits.

Clarke has to smile. “I have said that.”

“They all say that,” he says. “But they’re not looking for a husband like me. I think you actually might be.”

“I’m used to bedding women,” Clarke says. “So I know what it’s like to have partners who have their own opinions and rights. I haven’t actually bedded any men, but I still think I’d prefer someone like you to–” She shrugs. “I like _partners_ , not slaves.”

“You bed women?” he asks, sounding curious. “And you don’t bed men. So–”

“I would,” she says. It feels a little dangerous, but she adds, “I’d bed you,” anyway, because she would. She wants to. She likes him more than she expected to, his stubbornness, his irritation with the life he’s been dealt, having to fight every day just to stay with his sister, simply because he was born a man instead of a woman, the way he can’t help smiling, just a little, when she grumbles about the work she doesn’t know how to do or how poorly designed a tool is. He is absolutely nothing like he’s supposed to be, and it’s hard to overstate how much she wouldn’t mind having a husband like him.

He wets his lips, steps a little closer. “You would.”

“It would be one of my duties, if we married, so, yes, I’d force myself to–”

He’s laughing now, and she’s smiling herself, and when he leans down, she leans up. He’s clearly never kissed anyone before, which doesn’t surprise her, but it is a little thrilling. He’s choosing her, and she’ll get to have him. He’ll be _all hers_. No one gets a husband all to themselves. She’s not happy about why she will, but–it’s a little thrilling too.

“You want to marry _me_ ,” he says, a little disbelieving, and Clarke has to smile, because of course any family would marry Bellamy in a second, happily, until they realized what they were actually in for, and he’d be _miserable_ , being a husband with no responsibilities but keeping the house, fathering and raising children, only men’s work when he’s always done everything.

“I want to marry you,” Clarke agrees.

And she does.


	51. Practical Tactical Brilliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You're the only person in the bar who knew all the lyrics to my favorite song and now we're doing bad karaoke" + bellarke. (Strangers or old friends, whichever you like better.) Bonus points if it's a song from Hamilton, because we know Bellamy loves the classics but he would be SO into Hamilton too, am I right?
> 
> For [shipreally](http://shipreally.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy isn’t entirely sure how he ended up in this situation.

He knows a few things: he knows that it’s Octavia’s birthday, that she dragged him to her favorite bar for a party, and that he has been drinking. He knows that Monty spent a while trying to convince Miller to play darts, until Raven started trash talking, and finally Miller gave in with, “Okay, so we’re doing this,” and let Monty and Raven drag him away.

It’s possible Miller didn’t say _exactly_ that, but it was close enough to get Hamilton stuck in Bellamy’s head, because at any given time, Bellamy is about thirty seconds from breaking into a Hamilton rant, and the more he’s had to drink, the shorter that time gets.

Which is why he is currently attempting to rap “Guns and Ships” for Octavia’s cute coworker, Echo, whom Octavia was definitely trying to set him up with, and who will definitely never, ever go out with him, because his French accent is atrocious, his rapping is worse, and he keeps cutting himself off to give her more context.

“So yeah, you’ve got Aaron Burr as the narrator for the story,” he’s telling her. “Mostly. Angelica Schuyler–that’s Hamilton’s sister in law, but they also had kind of a thing going–does it for “It’s Quiet Uptown,” probably because Burr would be too much of a dick about it.“

“Mm,” says Echo.

“So yeah, I forgot the Burr part, and that’s important. _How does a ragtag volunteer army in need of a shower somehow defeat a global superpower_?” he sings, mostly on-key. At least Burr doesn’t rap. He can do most Burr lines.

He knows that she is not interested in this. He knows that he should, absolutely, stop this conversation and try to get back to some kind of safe conversation. He could hit on her. But it’s just _such a good song_ , and even if he can’t do it justice, he can’t help trying.

And then, the weirdest thing happens: he yells, “ _Everyone give it up for America’s favorite fighting Frenchman_!” and someone else yells, “ _Lafayette_!”

Bellamy blinks at Echo, but she looks about as confused as he feels.

“Come on, keep going,” says a voice, and Bellamy twists around to find a cute blonde behind him. “ _I’m taking this horse by the reigns_ ,” she says, and she can’t rap either, and her French accent is just as bad as his is, but she’s _really cute_ , and she wants to duet “Guns and Ships,” so obviously he picks up on, “ _Making redcoats redder with bloodstains_ ,” and they make it through to yelling “ _Hamilton_!” together before they both dissolve into laughter.

He doesn’t quite realize that Echo has left and the blonde has taken her seat until that point, and the main reason he notices is that the blonde is collapsed against his side, giggling. Which is, you know, awesome.

“God, I should not try to sing that song,” she says, grinning at him. “But it’s just so _cool_ , I can’t help it.”

“You did better than I did,” he says, with genuine admiration. “I can’t sing nearly that quickly.”

“Mere mortals can’t sing that quickly,” she says. “Daveed Diggs is some kind of god.”

“Yeah, the whole crew is on a different level. I think Lin can do it too, but even if he can’t, he’s still, you know.”

“Lin-Manuel Miranda,” the girl agrees, and then seems to realize what’s happening. “Oh, shit, I didn’t–” She straightened up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be all over you. Your girlfriend is probably pissed.”

“My what?”

“The brunette whose seat I stole?”

“Oh, yeah, uh, no. She’s a girl my sister was trying to set me up with. I don’t think it was going well.”

“It might have been, until I showed up. Sorry, I didn’t mean to cockblock you, I figured she was just, you know. Fondly indulgent of her boyfriend’s Hamilton love.”

“Confused by her coworker’s brother ranting about Aaron Burr.”

“That was my second guess.”

“You aren’t here for Octavia’s party, are you?” he asks. “I didn’t meet everyone.”

“Octavia?” she asks, and squints at him. “Holy shit, _Bellamy_?”

This night is just getting increasingly weird. Did he drink absinthe or something? Is this what happens when you drink absinthe? “Uh, yeah. Hi?”

“Jesus, wow. It’s, um, Clarke Griffin? I went to elementary school with your sister? You cut bubblegum out of my hair when I was eight?”

Bellamy blinks at her, letting his worldview reorient itself around this girl as _Clarke Griffin_ , whom he remembers, in a vague way, as someone Octavia knew who moved away when he was fifteen and they were ten. It had been tragic for his sister, in the melodramatic preteen way, and he’d been a little sad himself. He liked Clarke in a fairly uncommitted way. She was cool, for a ten-year-old.

He could say that, but instead, he says, “Wow, you got hot,” because he is not smooth. He’s so far from smooth he would need a powerful telescope to see smooth. Or maybe a microscope. He’s not sure where he is, in relation to smooth, but he knows that he’s actually on an entirely different _scale_ from smooth. He is measured in a different unit of measure from smooth.

He’s also drunk. That’s not helping with the whole situation.

But Clarke just laughs. “Yeah, right back at you. You were a really awkward teenager, so I’m impressed.”

“Hey, I’m still really awkward,” he grumbles, making her grin widen.

“Yeah, I can tell. Octavia is having a party?”

“She’s turning twenty-five.”

“Oh, awesome!” She cranes her neck to look around. “Where is she? We should say hi.”

“You should,” he says. “I should avoid her for as long as possible so she doesn’t yell at me because I scared another girl off by singing about Alexander Hamilton.”

“We were mostly singing about Lafayette,” she corrects. “How many girls have you scared off? It’s a really popular show. I can’t believe it took you this long to find someone who’s into that.”

“Okay, not that many with Hamilton specifically. Just with, you know.” He gestures to himself. “All this. And I still haven’t found anyone who’s into all this, so, yeah. Octavia is going to murder me. But you should say hi.”

“I meant me,” says Clarke, sounding amused. “I’m totally into all that. I was thinking we go say hi to your sister, come back here, talk about Hamilton until you sober up enough to remember to ask for my number, and then tomorrow you call me so we can get dinner and talk about Hamilton more. Sound good?”

He gapes at her for another minute, but manages to close his mouth and grin at last. “I am not throwing away my shot,” he says, firm, and Clarke is laughing as he offers his hand to pull her out of the booth.


	52. that's how you and I will be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke + plot of music video to "[bad day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gH476CxJxfg)"
> 
> For [mousebitten](http://mousebitten.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy’s first collaboration with Clarke is on an advertisement for that fucking _Minions_ movie.

Not that he knows, at the time, that he’s collaborating at Clarke. All he knows is that after a two weeks of staring with vague resentment at those goddamn yellow assholes while he’s waiting for his morning train, he arrives on Wednesday to see someone has drawn a lion eating one of them. It’s pretty cute, honestly: whimsical, kid-friendly violence, the kind that shows the aggression the minions so richly deserve but won’t upset any small children who like the things for some unfathomable reason.

It makes him smile all through his shitty day, through Shumway yelling at him for not doing shit no one told him to do and someone specifically told him not to do, through all Diana’s passive aggression. He doesn’t even know _why_ it helps so much. It’s just kind of nice. He can imagine someone else has been seeing that stupid poster every morning and hating it just as much as he does, only they decided to do something about it.

He gets off the train that night and walks by the ad again, and something compels him to stop, to examine the lion. It’s cute and cartoony, and he likes it just as much as he did in the morning.

But it’s only killing _one_  of the minions.

He has a sharpie in his bag, so he pulls it out, draws a hole under the minion on the left, some lines above it for motion, and adjusts its expression to reflect surprise that it is falling into a pit. It’s not his best work, artistically speaking, but it gets the job done, and he feels a sense of accomplishment and a weird camaraderie with this unknown other person.

He leaves the middle minion untouched, and on Friday morning, it has an anvil over its head, speed lines to indicate it is rushing ever closer, done by what looks like the same artist who did the lion. Bellamy grins, takes a picture of it on his way home, and sets it as his phone background. It makes him feel better, looking at it, which makes no sense, because he’s still looking at _minions_. But it feels, for the first time in a while, like someone is on his side.

*

The next ad that goes up after the minions is a father and child walking hand-in-hand toward a forest dark forest, and it seems to be telling you to teach your kids not to smoke or to read to them or something; Bellamy has no strong feelings about it one way or the other, not until his artistic partner starts adding things.

First, it’s a bright little light, just a circle with wings, picked out in silver felt-tip pen. He barely even notices it at first, not until he’s walking by at the end of the day, and even then, it takes him a minute to figure out what it is. He stares at it until it clicks: Navi, that fairy from Legend of Zelda.

He puts in a horse on the other side of the family, using his phone to get a reference for Epona. A few days later, the other person starts a dragon in the back ground, huge, with giant wings. On the one hand, Bellamy can’t remember any dragons in any of the Zelda games he played; on the other hand, it’s totally badass. He gives the kid a slingshot and the dad a sword and Link’s shield, and then watches for the next three days as the dragon takes shape, getting bigger, more powerful, covered in multi-colored scales. It’s a work of art, honestly, and that’s the first time he thinks about trying to stick around, to catch the other artist. To tell them how awesome they are.

But the dragon is done, so he just takes a few pictures and hopes that they don’t get rid of the ad for a while.

*

He’s having a shitty day when he gets off the train and discovers the dragon is gone, replaced with a girl sitting on a bench, working on a laptop. He’s annoyed enough with the world that he draws a rain cloud and a bunch of bad weather over her before he even stops to think about how second-nature vandalism has become to him.

Oh well.

He collides with the blonde who lives downstairs on his way into the elevator as she’s getting out, manages a genuine apology even though he’s still scowling. She flashes her smile, which–he’s never talked to her, but he likes her smile. He even smiles back.

Octavia calls that night, and they have a civil conversation that doesn’t involve anyone accusing anyone else of being overprotective, or anyone saying anyone else abandoned their family, or anything else like that. She likes California, and she’s happy. He thinks he would probably be happy for her, if he wasn’t so unhappy for himself, most of the time. Or, not even unhappy, just–he could use something going better in his life. His job getting less shitty. Miller coming back from Australia. Octavia deciding she likes New York after all. A girlfriend, maybe.

Instead, the next morning, his artist friend has drawn an umbrella over the girl on the subway poster, and that’s all he thinks about for the rest of the day. It’s a gesture, he thinks, but it also feels, for the first time, like they’re fighting. The dragon didn’t, really; they were going for the same picture, two people fighting a monster. He went for a storm, something to make the girl on the bench miserable, and his partner gave her an umbrella.

He draws a taxi spraying water onto the bench, soaking the girl, that night; it takes him fucking _hours_ , but it feels important.

He might be projecting a little.

He runs into the blonde again when he finally gets home, hanging out outside of their building.

“Locked out?” he asks, and she startles, smiles. 

“Yeah, I think I left my keys at work. Or possibly the fell out of my bag on the train, and I’m fucked.”

He smiles back and holds the door open for her. “Did you call the super or anything? Can you get in your apartment?”

“Yeah, I called, someone’s supposed to be on the way.”

“Ouch,” he says, and when she raises her eyebrows, he adds, “Uh, yeah, you might be waiting a while.”

“Oh well.”

“Do you want to hang out in my place? I promise I’m not a serial killer.”

“I bet that’s what the serial killers say too,” she teases.

“Only the self-aware ones,” he says.

“I do appreciate the offer,” she says. “But I’m probably just going to dick around on my phone until they show up.”

“Sure. I’m in 4C, if they don’t show up, or whatever. Just in case.”

Her smile is genuine, if a little tired. “Thanks, appreciated.”

“No problem. Good luck. I hope you find your keys.”

He doesn’t realize until he’s upstairs that he still doesn’t even know her name.

*

There’s no response from his–coartist? friend? whatever–the next day, and it’s honestly kind of a letdown. But maybe they haven’t been to the train station, or haven’t come up with a response, or took his taxi as a sign of aggression and backed off.

Or he’s reading too much into a non-relationship he has with a person he’s never met and never will. He can’t even be completely sure it’s the same person, except that the style is consistent and it _feels_ like the same person.

Then it’s the weekend and he doesn’t go to the train for a few days, and on Monday, there is a full drawing of Link sitting next to the girl, protecting her from the water with his shield, and Navi at her side, with a speech bubble saying, “Hey, listen! Things will get better!”

It’s over-the-top enough that other people are even taking pictures of it, and Bellamy can’t stop smiling. Shumway is so alarmed by his good cheer that he avoids him for the rest of the day, and Diana is happy for him, which might actually be worse than her being passive-aggressive at him.

He has no idea how he’s supposed to respond, and ends up drawing a rupee between Link and the girl on the bench, out of lack of any other response. It looks kind of cool, anyway.

He also takes a billion more pictures and replaces the dragon as his phone background.

Outside, it’s raining, and he spots the blonde from his building shielding herself with her coat, waiting for the traffic light to switch. He jogs over and puts up the umbrella, offering her a smile.

“Still not a serial killer,” he says. “Did you find your keys?”

“On my counter, thank god.” She worries her lip. “This is the wrong way around.”

“Huh?”

“I saw you the other night,” she admits. “When you were drawing the taxi. I was going to say something, but I couldn’t figure out what. Even when you were _actually talking to me_ , I didn’t know how to–” She ducks her head, and Bellamy feels, stupidly, like his whole life is turning around. Like this is a pivotal moment. “But, yeah. I drew the umbrella, so I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be rescuing you.”

“Oh,” he manages. “Yeah, um. You can hold it, if it’ll make you feel better,” he says, offering the umbrella, and she laughs. “Apparently I don’t know what to say either. But–thanks. You’ve been the highlight of my commute for a few months, apparently.”

“Ditto.” She takes the umbrella and extends her other hand to him. “I’m Clarke.”

“Bellamy,” he says. “Nice to finally meet you.”


	53. UILF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Could you please write a Super cute Daddy!Bellamy fic of Bellamy & Clarke taking Octavia & Lincoln's baby/toddler(s) to meet Santa or to a Christmas fair thing?
> 
> For [cloverjean](http://cloverjean.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke really, really should have known better.

It had seemed like such an innocent question. Bellamy had been so _casual_ about it. He just stuck his head into her room and said, “Hey, are you busy?”

“Not really.”

“Awesome. Do you want to come visit Santa with me?”

“Bellamy, you’re thirty-one. It’s creepy for you to go see Santa.”

He rolled his eyes. “I agreed to take my sister’s kids. I’m not going to sit on his lap personally. He should be so lucky.”

That had been what got her. They’ve been roommates for a year and were kind of friends for a year before that, but his sister and her family only moved to town last month, and she hasn’t really gotten to meet them yet, with all the travel and overtime associated with the holidays. She knows the family consists of a sister and a brother-in-law, a niece who’s three, and a nephew who’s almost a year old. They managed to grab dinner with his sister, once, but Clarke still hasn’t met the kids, and she wants to.

“You can’t handle two kids alone and need my help,” she said, nodding with mock gravity. “I see how it is. Fine. I guess I could come along.”

The thing she hadn’t reckoned with was Bellamy with kids.

She’s never thought of herself as one of those people who loses their head when they see someone they’re attracted to with a child. But Bellamy is–well, he’s mostly kind of a grumpy dick, but he really likes kids. He has pictures of his niece and nephew all over the fridge and shows her videos of them all the time. It’s adorable, and it’s part of why she wanted to meet them in the first place.

But then there she is at Octavia’s, standing next to him when his niece barrels into his legs, and she realizes it was a huge fucking mistake.

“Uncle Bell!”

He scoops the girl up into his arms and twirls her in the air, grinning wider than Clarke has ever seen. “Hey, Maddie! Are you excited to go see Santa?”

“Yeah!”

“Have you been a good girl?”

“Yeah!”

“Hmm,” he says, putting her on his hip and giving her a very serious look. “I don’t know. Are you _sure_?”

“Yes!” she says, pouting, and Bellamy ruffles her hair.

“Yeah, okay. I believe you. What are you gonna ask for?”

“Rarity!”

“Rarity?”

“Her favorite My Little Pony,” says Octavia. “Hey, Bell. Oh, you brought Clarke.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m being very rude, Maddie, don’t be like me.” He turns the full force of his smile on Clarke, and it’s a lot to take in. “Maddie, this is my friend Clarke. Clarke, this is my niece, Madison. We usually call her Maddie.”

“I can’t believe I let Lincoln talk me into a presidential naming theme,” Octavia grumbles. “It’s because I was still recovering from giving birth and high from the epidural. Hi, Clarke, good to see you again.”

“You too.” She gives Maddie a somewhat awkward smile; she’s not actually great with kids. She did not think this through on any level. “Nice to meet you, Maddie.”

“Nice to meet you!” Maddie chirps.

“Clarke’s gonna come with us to see Santa. Where’s Tyler?” he asks his sister.

“In his crib still. He has about a billion things that go with him. You sure you’re up for this, Bell?”

“You act like I’ve never done anything with your kids before,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I took you to visit Santa when I was _eight_.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re basically a superhero. Come on, we’ll get you guys ready to go.”

Tyler is pretty adorable, Clarke has to admit. She doesn’t particularly love babies, not like some people do, but he has a few tufts of curly black hair and his mother’s pale eyes and likes to laugh.

Plus, Bellamy is holding him, and it’s hard to look bad in Bellamy’s arms. It doesn’t make Clarke want to have a billion of Bellamy’s babies or anything, but–she really wants to make out with him. Like, a lot.

“So, you’ve got the baby sling, the diaper bag, the bottles, Maddie’s bag, snacks–”

“You know we’re not going to war, right, O? We’re going to be gone for like two hours, tops.”

“Which one of us is the parent here? And don’t tell me more about how you basically raised me, we couldn’t afford to have this much stuff so of course we didn’t.”

“We’ll be fine,” Bellamy assures her, putting his arm around his sister’s shoulders and pressing his lips to her hair. “We’re gonna drive to Canada and get everyone matching tattoos, but you gave us plenty of snacks, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Octavia gives Clarke a look that clearly says, _get a load of this loser_ , and then shoves him off. “Fine. Leave. Just don’t get Chinese characters for your tattoos. They’ll definitely lie to you about what they mean.”

“Got it. I’ll call you if something goes wrong, which it won’t, because we’re going _to the mall_.” He smiles at Maddie. “Ready?”

“Ready!”

Clarke tries not to melt when he turns her smile on her. He’s still _holding a baby_ , like an asshole. “Ready, Clarke?”

“Let’s go.”

*

It’s somehow even worse than she anticipated. Bellamy has a baby strapped to his chest and keeps making faces at him to make him giggle, while also chatting with Maddie about preschool and making sure to include Clarke in the conversation. He’s smiling non-stop, and it’s not like he’s always a gloomy asshole when they hang out, but his smiles are more wry, his laughs more snorts. She loves that too, but–it’s hard to process how happy he seems to be. Clarke was not prepared.

Plus, people keep assuming they’re a family unit, which is completely understandable. Well, okay, it’s actually about half-and-half on people who assume they’re related and people who aren’t sure because the kids are clearly too dark to be theirs, genetically speaking, but still. Everyone clearly assumes they’re a couple.

Maddie takes point on explaining the situation, and her solution is to say that this is her Uncle Bell and “his Clarke,” which is kind of worse. There’s no good way to correct a three-year-old on that one, so people just ask how long they’ve been together.

It’s the kind of torture that involves getting exactly what you want and then having to give it up.

Bellamy isn’t helping either. Since they’re not correcting anyone’s assumptions about their relationship, he’s just going with it. Currently, he’s chatting to the couple in line with them, who also have a small baby, answering questions about the two of them with his arm slung around her shoulders.

“Yeah, we were roommates first, which was a terrible idea, because I was so into her,” he says.

Clarke ducks out from under his arm to crouch down with Maddie.

“The pony you like is Rarity, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me everything about her.”

Maddie lights up, and it’s enough to pull them all the way towards Santa. Rarity is, apparently, a fancy white unicorn with a purple mane who designs clothing and can find gems with her horn, which sounds made up, but Clarke doesn’t really care at this point.

Maddie goes and sits on Santa’s lap, talks his ear off for a while, and then Bellamy brings Tyler over and gets them both on Santa for a photo.

“Sorry,” he says. “I should have told you.”

There’s something odd in his voice that Clarke can’t place. “It’s okay. I honestly should have realized people would assume we’re a couple. People assume that all the time when we _don’t_ have two kids.”

He frowns. “Oh,” he says, after a minute, and starts laughing.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

It nags at her as they collect the kids and head back to Octavia’s–and hour an a half trip, all told, with no diaper changes required. Octavia insists on keeping them for dinner, and Clarke has almost forgotten about it when they finally get home, but not quite. It still feels like something, a strange little tug.

“What was funny?” she asks, poking him.

“It’s nothing.”

“You said you’d tell me later.”

“You left that conversation after I said I was into you,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “So I thought you were, uh–I thought you knew.”

She frowns. “You were bullshitting for strangers. It was awkward.”

“I really wasn’t,” he says. There’s an earnestness in his eyes, something nervous and a little hopeful, and Clarke’s heart stops. “I was mostly thinking it was a terrible idea to ask you to come with me. I thought I’d impress you with my competence with kids or something. But I just–” He shakes his head. “Yeah. Bad idea.”

“You did,” she says, not sure how she’s managing words, all things considered. “Impress me. You’re really fucking cute with kids. But you didn’t need to bother, honestly.”

She kisses him before she can lose her nerve, and he kisses her back before she can decide it’s a bad idea.

“So, uh, I’m hearing we should do that every year,” he says, resting his forehead against hers, beaming. He looks as happy as he did with the kids, happier, even, and it’s _awesome_.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “We really should.”


	54. what kind of day it's going to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: What about a West Wing AU with Clarke as CJ and Bellamy as Danny? Clarke's just trying to get through a crazy press day, but that relentless reporter from the third row won't stop hounding her for the story he knows she's keeping back.
> 
> For [aftertherockets](http://aftertherockets.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke has been at the White House since five a.m., and didn’t leave last night until after midnight. She managed about two hours of good sleep, and she’s been working on press releases all day, none of which are ready, and no one will leave her alone.

She’s amazed Bellamy doesn’t show up until eight; it’s a lot of restraint for him. That doesn’t stop her from greeting him with, “I will actually murder you.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says, grinning. “I brought you coffee.”

She frowns down at the paper cup, which is definitely from her favorite little coffee shop and definitely smells delicious. “I don’t accept bribes,” she says.

“It’s not a bribe, it’s–” He pauses. “No, actually, it’s a bribe. But it’s so you don’t kill me, not because I think it’s going to get me advance information.”

She wavers for all of five seconds before she snatches the mug and drinks deeply. “I won’t kill you yet.”

“That’s the best I ever hope for,” he says, falling into step with her. “Where’s your intern who doesn’t know how to shut up? Myles? He’ll tell me what’s happening, right?”

Clarke gives him an unimpressed look, which he returns with an even brighter smile. Bellamy is her least favorite White House correspondent, in that he’s actually her favorite and that makes him incredibly inconvenient.

“Nothing is happening,” she says.

“Wow. That’s really what you’re going with? Really? You look like you haven’t slept and you usually at least let me be an asshole before you start threatening to kill me.” His voice drops, real concern leaking into his tone. “Wells doing okay?”

“ _President Jaha_ is fine,” she says. Bellamy and Wells went to college together, which was the start of Wells saying, _Hey, I met this guy, he’d be perfect for you_. She’s not sure why he thought it was a good idea to appoint her as his Press Secretary when he’s been trying to set her up with a reporter, but she’s never really understood how Wells’ mind works. “You can wait for the press conference like everyone else, Bellamy.”

“So now I can’t even express concern for my old friend on what’s clearly a–” Clarke elbows him, and he relents. “Fine. How long to the press conference?”

“I still haven’t made up my mind to not murder you.”

“If it’s more than an hour, I’ll bring you another coffee at nine.”

His smile is stupidly charming, and Clarke is already exhausted enough to want to lean into him. He would totally date her in a second. She knows he would. He asked her, before Wells got elected. He’d said, “I want one good thing if this goes badly, so if he loses, will you get dinner with me?”

Clarke had smiled. “Not if he wins?”

“If he wins it’s probably a conflict of interest.”

“Probably,” she’d agreed. “Sure, if he loses, we’ll get dinner. You’re paying, since I won’t have a job.”

They’d shaken on it, formal, and Clarke hadn’t been sad that Wells won, but she does, sometimes, wish her interests weren’t so different from Bellamy’s in just one way, and that it wasn’t such an important way.

“Make the next one a latte and we’ll talk,” she tells him, pulling her attention back to the matter at hand. “I have shit to do. Don’t trick my intern into giving away state secrets.”

“Don’t get interns I can trick!” he calls after her, and she manages to maintain her smile for a full fifteen minutes.

*

He brings a muffin with the latte, and a banana.

“Potassium,” he says. “It’s good for you.”

“Is this _bran_?” she asks, poking at the muffin. “How old are you?”

“Eighty,” he says. “Did you put the press conference at 9:30 so you could drink your coffee first?”

She tears off a hunk of the muffin and passes it back to him so he can take some. It’s not really a break, just sharing a quick meal with a–colleague. That’s probably the right word.

“I had to give everyone else a chance to show up. Not all reporters are as dedicated as you.”

“Sucks to be them.” He steals the coffee and takes a sip. “Do I get an exclusive scoop for showing up early and often?”

“The Press Secretary prefers blueberry muffins.”

“You might as well just eat cake for breakfast,” he grumbles. “Seriously, Clarke. Bran is _good for you_.”

“So is jogging, that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.” She sighs and reclaims her coffee. “Okay, nice talk, I gotta go. See you in thirty.”

He catches her wrist, surprising her. “Seriously, Clarke. Are you guys okay? I usually hear at least a hint of what’s coming before one of these.”

“Maybe I’m getting better at my job,” she says, but she can’t keep up the coolness. She breaks and smiles at him. “We’re fine, Bellamy. Thanks for the coffee. And the banana.”

“And the muffin, you loved the muffin.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

*

It’s a long rest of the day. Wells discovered a lot of shady shit his dad was involved in before his death, during his presidency, shit that involved Clarke’s mom, among other people, and breaking the news feels personal in a way that she doesn’t quite understand. It’s not like it’s _their_  scandal, and they’re doing the right thing, but she can’t help it. She thinks it’s that it feels like her opinion as a person matters, in addition to her opinion as a member of the second Jaha presidency, and she has no interest in dealing with that.

It doesn’t help that Bellamy, after the press conference, is surprisingly absent, which makes her feel itchy under her skin, like he thinks she fucked up or something. He asked a few questions during the conference, but when she’s out of her eleven-o'clock meeting, he’s nowhere to be found, and it makes her feel hollow.

He’s not back until 4:30, but he does have a sandwich.

“At what point did we decide I can’t feed myself?” she asks.

“Wells called me last night to fill me in.”

Clarke stares. “But you didn’t–”

“I didn’t break it,” he agrees. “He didn’t call because he was giving me an exclusive. He was worried about you.” There’s another pause, and then he says, “I quit my job.”

Clarke chokes. “When?”

“Three days ago. Wells knew, which is probably why he called me. I’m staying on until the end of the month to train the new kid, tie up loose ends, etc.”

“I feel like I missed half this conversation. Are you–you’re not leaving DC, are you?”

He grins. “Nope. I got a job at the Newseum.”

“The Newseum? Seriously?”

“What? The Newseum is cool.”

“You’re a Pulitzer-prize-winning journalist,” she points out.

“It’s a _good_ job,” he says. “Kind of different, yeah. But if it sucks I can probably convince another newspaper to hire me. Or write another book. I’ve got options. But, yeah. I’ve got three more weeks at the _Post_ and then I’m done.”

Clarke looks down at her hands. “I still feel like I’m missing something.”

“I thought you would be having a shitty day. And you don’t deal well with direct displays of affection, so I figured I’d just bring you coffee and pester you until you felt better.”

“And then you disappeared,” she says. It comes out accusatory.

“Like I said, I am theoretically training a replacement. I was teaching her how to trick Myles into giving away state secrets.”

“Don’t you just ask him for state secrets and he starts talking?”

“You really need to work on your hiring process for interns, yeah.” He fishes out his phone and pulls up a text. Wells is, apparently, listed in Bellamy’s phone as PRESIDENT JAHA!! followed by a bunch of patriotic emoji. “Your boss says you are required to leave at five,” he continues, and Wells has, in fact, said that.

“You could have faked this text.”

“I could have. You still look like you haven’t slept in days, though.” He wets his lips. “And I think I owe you dinner.”

Clarke feels her heart in her throat. “Are we really doing this now?”

“I was going to wait, but, yeah. I’m kind of worried about you. The stuff with your mom can’t be easy. I won’t–” His eyes soften, and Clarke nearly leans in, except she’s still at work, and she’s a professional. But it’s very tempting. “I’m not looking for an exclusive here. I just want to help you.”

“You couldn’t have told me that this morning?” she grumbles.

“I didn’t want to distract you.” At her raised eyebrows, he finally falters a little, flushes. “I was hoping finding out I was quitting my job would distract you.”

“You didn’t quit your job for me, did you?” She has to ask. It feels important.

He shrugs. “Not just for you. The hours are better too.” He stands and stretches. “So, five? Dinner’s on me.”

“You bought breakfast and lunch,” Clarke says, smile tugging on her mouth. “I can cover dinner.”

She can tell he’s trying not to smile too hard, and it makes her heart flip. She knows the feeling. “Okay,” he agrees. “It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy POV [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12805521/chapters/29630184)!


	55. Scare Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bellarke “we both work at a haunted house and you keep scaring people before i can aND I TOTALLY HAD THAT COUPLE AND U KNOW IT BUT U SPOILED IT ON PURPOSE so i did it right back to you and now we’ve ended up making it into a competition on who can scare the most people fiRST AND U STUPID MOTHERFUCKER GET OUT OF MY WAY THAT HORRIFIED 10 YEAR OLD IS M I N E” 
> 
> For [stayalivelou](http://stayalivelou.tumblr.com/)!

Bellamy is an expert scarer, in as much as it’s possible to be an expert scarer when you just work at a seasonal haunted house, instead of being a character in _Monsters Inc_. But he’s been working the haunted house at Hartwell Manor since he was in high school, and it’s basically his baby at this point. He even managed to turn the position into an actual, full-time job at the site, which, okay, it’s not like it pays very much, but he gets to give tours and go on rants about how the Hartwell family made all their money off slavery and were generally assholes, and he still has time to take classes at night to try to finish his degree.

Still, he always has a soft-spot for Halloween at the manor, because they go all out. The place is already basically terrifying at night, just because it’s old and dark and creepy, and there are all sorts of ghost stories generated from years of superstition and bumps in the night. He and the rest of the staff have managed to combine legitimate legends and lore about the house with cheap jump scares, and he totally loves it.

Then, Clarke Griffin shows up.

He’d been tangentially aware of Clarke before the Halloween stuff started up. She does tours on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and Bellamy did her training, but they haven’t interacted much since then. She struck him as basically smart and competent, but well off, probably a rich kid looking for a few extra bucks to supplement her allowance, assuming that a historical house would look better on her resume than Starbucks would. Which is fine, it’s her business. She’s not the kind of person he wants to hang out with or anything, but most of his coworkers aren’t, for one reason or another. He has nothing against her.

That is, not until she steals his scare.

They’re on the same basic job for the haunted house, which is wearing black, sneaking around through the unknown parts of the house, grabbing at people from unexpected places. It’s one of the tougher jobs, requiring both stealth and a good understanding of the layout of the manor, including all the secret places. The first few years, it was pretty easy, but now they have a _reputation_ , so people are always on the lookout for him. Bellamy was honestly surprised when Clarke got assigned to the task as well; inexperienced as she is, he was convinced she’d show herself. Which might be okay, honestly. The worst thing for any kind of haunted house is getting predictable, and having another person around, causing more chaos as a shadowy figure, is good. People who spot her still might not see him, might relax their guard. He tries to tell himself a bumbler could make him look better.

Instead, she’s fucking _good_ at the whole sneaking and scaring thing. She comes in dressed in all black, like he is, with her bright hair hidden under a knit black cap. Her expression is serious, like she doesn’t think sneaking around trying to scare kids is ridiculous at all.

And she clearly doesn’t think it, because she’s _good_ , and she manages to steal a scare right out from under him.

“What was that?” he hisses, sliding into the servants’ hallway behind her.

“What?”

“I had that!”

“Had what?”

“That scare!” he snaps, and sounds stupid as soon as he says it. He’s twenty-five; his sense of self-worth should not be tied to scaring children. Clarke looks similarly unimpressed, and he tries not to flush. “I was just, you know. About to get him.”

“Are you twelve?”

“Just stay out of my way, okay?” he mutters, which is _also_ the wrong thing to say. He is not handling any part of this with competence or dignity.

“Sure thing, boss,” she says, overly peppy, with a sharp salute, and slides away through the narrow corridor.

“Fuck,” Bellamy breathes.

This is not going to go well.

*

As it turns out, Clarke has a competitive streak. It’s honestly the kind of thing Bellamy respects in a person, and he almost wishes he hadn’t started this whole _you stole my scare_ thing, because Clarke honestly seems pretty cool.

But it’s too late now. They’re rivals. Bitter rivals. There’s a white-board in the break room and they start a _scare tally_. They sneak around each other as much as the visitors, never letting on where they are or what they’re planning. Every time Bellamy steals someone out from under Clarke, she scowls, and every time she does it back, he–well, okay. He feels some grudging respect for her. She’s fucking _sneaky_. He didn’t know anyone knew this house as well as he did, but she gives him a run for his money.

It’s honestly really, stupid fun, even as he kind of wants to strangle her. Just sometimes.

Now, for example.

“You’re such a dick!” she says, shoving him in the chest.

“Hey, you snooze you lose.”

“I was _touching him_. And you gave away my position!”

“You gave away your position. You’re the one who screamed. And if you were touching him, why didn’t he get scared until you screamed?”

“Getting us noticed by the visitors is going too far,” Clarke says, and Bellamy has to admit that he privately agrees. He hadn’t known that grabbing her arm would freak her out so much; apparently she was in the zone.

But he is nothing if not an asshole, so he smirks and says, “Any time you want to back out–”

Her eyes flash. “Seriously, Bellamy? You want to do this?”

His sister would tell him this is the time to stand down, to apologize, tell her he didn’t mean it, act like a rational human being who progressed beyond teasing girls he likes instead of dealing with his feelings. Which he mostly has. Clarke just brings out the worst in him.

“Bring it on.”

*

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he doesn’t get it. In fact, for the first few days, there’s nothing at all out of the ordinary. Halloween is just around the corner, and he has to wonder if Clarke is just more mature than he is and is going to take the high road, which would be a huge disappointment, honestly.

Thankfully, the Friday before Halloween, she starts playing _dirty_.

The servant corridors they use to get around are narrow and dark. They’ve always been strategically important, because they can’t both go through at the same time without one of them moving out of the way, so it always becomes kind of a game of chicken when they’re going opposite directions. They usually don’t touch each other at all–it’s been an unspoken agreement–but Bellamy broke that rule, and now Clarke is taking advantage of it.

She’s _flirting_.

She’s brushing up against him, pushing in close, trailing her hand up his arm, phantom touches that he almost doesn’t notice until she’s gone.

He’d like to say it’s not working, but it really, really is. Clarke Griffin flirting really does it for him, and he’s completely off his game all night. He lags, he’s distracted, he wants to just stop her one of the times she brushes past him, pressing in much closer than necessary, and push her up against the wall and kiss her breathless.

She’s definitely, unquestionably winning.

“Happy Halloween,” she tells him, the day of. She’s wearing a black v-neck sweater, and he’s going to die. “I’m up by three scares,” she adds, over her shoulder, as she heads into the house.

“Night’s not over,” he says, but he’s having trouble getting his jaw off the floor.

His only real move is to flirt back, so he that’s what does. When they pass, he leans in close to whisper to her, tell her how many people he’s scared, anything he can think of. When she trails her hand up his arm, he flexes his bicep and brushes his nose against her temple.

They somehow last until half an hour before the house closes before he pushes her up against the wall.

“Okay?” he asks, rough, centimeters from her lips.

“Yeah,” she says, tugs him down the rest of the way to her mouth. She doesn’t give an inch when she kisses either, all heat and stubbornness, and Bellamy groans and presses closer.

They don’t manage to make it back onto the floor before close, and he’s sure he’s going to get, if not fired, then at least severely reprimanded, even if they somehow make it look like they didn’t spend half an hour desperately making out in a disused corridor.

Instead, when they get back to the staff room, Jasper claps him on the shoulder, and Monty grins at Clarke. “That was _inspired_ ,” says Jasper. Bellamy raises his eyebrows, glancing back at Clarke. “Everyone was so paranoid, it was amazing. They all knew you guys were coming, and when you didn’t? I’ve never seen teenagers so freaked out. You need to do days where you just don’t show up at all, it’s perfect. Whose idea was it?”

He glances at Clarke again, finds she’s grinning. “Mutual,” she says.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Mutual.”

He maneuvers himself next to her as they leave for the night. “So, uh, big Halloween plans? Party or something?”

Her smile is shockingly shy, like she might actually think he wanted that to be a one-time thing. “Do I have better offer?”

“I really hope so,” he says, and she bumps his shoulder gently, slides her hand into his.

“Then, yeah. I’m free as a bird,” she says, and tugs him to her car.


	56. Don't Come A-Knocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: could you do something roommates+smut?
> 
> For [bellmyblake](http://bellmyblake.tumblr.com/)!

Clarke meets Bellamy through Nate, but she doesn’t find out they’re sleeping together until Nate wants him to move into their third bedroom after Anya moves out.

“He could use a better place than his current shit hole,” says Nate. “As long as you don’t mind us.”

“I’ve never minded you before,” Clarke says.

“I assume we’ll hook up more if we live together.”

She frowns. “How much are you hooking up now?”

“Like once a week or so,” he says, easy. “Just for fun.”

“Why just for fun?”

“I dunno. It’s just how we are.”

Clarke takes that to mean that Bellamy is gay or bi and in denial about it, and holds it against him for about a month after he moves in, until they’re watching _Oceans Eleven_ and get into a long argument about which of the eleven is hottest.

“So, you’re bi?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, surprised. “I thought Nate told you.”

“He told me you guys were sleeping together and you _weren’t like that_ ,” she says, making air quotes. “I figured that meant, you know. Macho sexuality denial.”

He snorts. “Yeah, no. I just don’t do relationships much.”

“Ugh, that might be worse,” she says, kicking his foot. “Way to be a cliche, Bellamy.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says, and they move on with their lives.

She keeps expecting it to blow up, maybe just because she has so little luck with actual relationships, she has trouble believing that no-strings-attached sex is any easier. Which doesn’t even make sense, honestly. It’s supposed to be easier. But Clarke could never believe that; she was sure it would just make everything harder.

Instead, Nate meets Monty, they start dating, and he and Bellamy go back to being friends without benefits. Bellamy has casual sex with other people, she assumes, and she feels sort of irritable and tragically single for a few months, until she meets Finn Collins, who’s charming and funny and makes her feel happy, right up until his other girlfriend shows up.

Bellamy sleeps with her too, after the dust settles, and Clarke smacks him in the back of the head, on principle.

“Ow, what?”

“I can’t believe you fucked Raven.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t. I gave you dibs.”

“How do you not have crabs yet?”

“I’ve slept with four people since you met me,” he says, mild.

“Four?”

“Miller, this girl Roma, your friend Wells–”

“When did you sleep with Wells?” Clarke demands.

“Uh, no comment. And Raven.”

“I thought you, like, hooked up all the time after Nate.”

“Nope. Just Roma.”

“And Wells.”

“Pretend I didn’t say that. I thought he told you.”

“I just don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head. “Casual sex.”

“It’s basically the same as non-casual sex,” he says. “Same mechanics. You’d figure it out.” He pats her on the shoulder. “You want another beer?”

It’s the kind of thing that only bothers her when she thinks about it in comparison to her own love life, which means it only bothers her when she’s single and mopey and he seems happy. It’s just–she thinks Bellamy would probably be a pretty good boyfriend to someone, if he wanted to be. He acts all gruff and above it all, but he’s a genuinely good guy who loves taking care of people. It seems like a shame, that all he does is fuck random people, instead of actually being with someone.

Then she starts dating Lexa, and it stops bothering her that Bellamy is single. It’s his life. She’s happy, he’s happy. Nate is really fucking happy; he moves in with Monty, and Clarke is thrilled for him. He’s her oldest friend, outside of Wells, and he deserves a great boyfriend who makes him happy.

“That could have been you,” she tells Bellamy, poking him in the side.

“Which one?” he asks, unconcerned. “I’m too cool to be Monty and not cool enough to be Miller.”

“You could totally have a boyfriend if you wanted one.”

“True. Which is good evidence I don’t want one.” He pokes her back. “Will you leave my love life alone? I’m good. Leave me alone.”

They’re half-assedly looking for another roommate when Lexa moves to Japan with almost no warning. The conversation before is pretty horrific, and involves a lot of discussion of whether or not Clarke was really _invested in the relationship_ , which seems like a fucking unfair question, coming from someone who decided to flee to another country instead of trying to work things out.

She also says some shit about Bellamy that hits closer to home than Clarke would like, but, again, she still feels like she’s the one in the right here, because she didn’t fly across the world in a huff.

“I never liked her,” Bellamy says, and Clarke smiles.

“Yeah, you weren’t real subtle about it.” She leans her head on her shoulder. “Maybe you’re right about relationships.”

“What do I say about relationships?”

“You don’t have them.”

“Yes, I do.” She frowns at him, distrustful, and he wraps his arm around her and squeezes. “Just because I didn’t date Miller–”

“He’s _great_ –”

He starts counting on his fingers. “Miller and I wouldn’t have worked out, we’re both too–surly. And we bring it out in each other. It would have ruined our friendship. Roma didn’t want a relationship, I might have dated her. I don’t know. Raven was rebounding.” He grins. “I totally would have dated Wells, but he’s not local.”

“What about the girl you’ve been seeing? Echo, right?”

“Just friends.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not sleeping together and have no interest in starting. Please don’t tell me I have to start justifying why I’m not dating people now.”

“You should be dating. You should be _so happy_.”

“You’re drunk,” he says, fond. He presses a kiss to her hair. “I am happy, okay? And you were way too good for Lexa. You could never be happy with someone who spent that much on eye makeup.”

Clarke laughs and snuggles against him, and she figures it’s fine. She’s happy too. Most of the time.

Wells gets a new job moves into their third bedroom, and Clarke asks if he and Bellamy are sleeping together again.

“It was one time!” Wells protests.

“He’d date you,” Clarke says, and she hopes it doesn’t come out petulant.

“I’m pretty sure that would be weird,” says Wells.

“It wouldn’t. He needs a nice boyfriend.”

“I think he needs a nice girlfriend,” he says, which makes no sense. “I’m going for your friend Raven instead.”

Two months after her Lexa breakup, Clarke decides she’s going to do the casual sex thing. It can’t be hard, right? It’s the same as regular sex, just without feelings.

“Do you still kiss?”

Bellamy blinks at her. It’s ten a.m. and he’s doing a crossword; she maybe should have started this conversation in a different way. With, like, a topic sentence.

“You mean, am I capable of it?”

“I’m thinking I should try casual sex,” she says. “Clearly relationships aren’t working out for me. So I need you to help me out.”

“No way,” he says, instantly.

“What? Why not?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“You don’t give tips? I need help, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Oh,” he says. He looks distinctly uncomfortable. “Yeah, tips. Tips are fine.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Of course you can kiss,” he says, not making eye contact. “Kissing is awesome. Do what you want. I mean, talk about it first, but–”

“What did you think I meant?” she asks. “Do you–you wouldn’t sleep with me?”

“I don’t sleep with lots of people,” he says, but he still sounds so fucking _awkward_.

“I bet we’d have awesome sex.”

“I bet we would.”

“I know it’s not that we’re roommates, you sleep with your roommates. You like girls. Is it because I’m blonde? That would just be sad. Don’t discriminate based on _hair color_.”

“You can’t have casual sex if someone isn’t casual,” he says, putting the crossword away and going to the fridge. “So we can’t have casual sex.”

Clarke swallows, feels herself go pale. She’s been trying so hard to not think about having a thing for Bellamy that it never even occurred that _he_ might notice. But Lexa did, so of course Bellamy could have too. It’s probably her obsession with his love life. Kind of a giveaway.

“Fuck,” she says. “I’m–why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs, but there’s tension all up the line of his back as he roots around in the produce drawer. “You had a girlfriend by the time I figured it out,” he says.

Clarke pauses. “Figured what out, exactly?”

He slumps back against the fridge door to close it; his rummaging was clearly a total ruse, because he’s got nothing. He just folds his arms over his chest and glares at her. “Sounded like you knew.”

Clarke pushes away from the table, goes over to stand in front of him. “I thought you meant I wasn’t casual. You were on the list of reasons my girlfriend dumped me.”

He stares at her, and she’s close enough she can see when he swallows. “You would _suck_ at casual relationships. You shouldn’t do that. It’d be a total disaster.”

“Bellamy,” she says, and he uncrosses his arms, looks down at her with a kind of helpless little smile. When she tugs him, he comes willingly, instantly, and his arms wrap around her, his mouth warm as it slants against hers.Clarke presses in as close as she can, wraps her arms around his neck, and opens up when he slides his tongue against her lips.

“Is Wells home?” he asks, turning them around and lifting her onto the counter.

“Nope, at Raven’s. Is it weird for you that they’re together now?”

“I really don’t care,” he says, nuzzling her neck. “Not really exes, so–none of my business. Good for them.”

“We really shouldn’t do this in the kitchen,” she says, but she’s wrapping her legs around him to pull him closer anyway. “Seriously, we have so many other places we could have sex. Like, anywhere else. Your room. My room. Wells would probably rather we had sex in his room than on the counter, honestly.”

Bellamy pulls back to grin at her. “I don’t put out on the first date.”

“So, if I actually want a relationship, I have to wait to get you naked?” she asks, sliding her hands under his shirt. “Casual sex is sounding better and better.”

He kisses her again, longer, and scoops her up, trying to get her out of the kitchen without breaking the kiss.

When he walks them into the table, he gives up on that, and Clarke giggles against his neck. “You know, I think it’s worth it to stop making out so we can get to a bedroom.”

“Says you,” he mutters, but he puts her down and tugs her into his bedroom. Clarke hasn’t actually been in here much–they tend to hang out in the common spaces–but it’s nice, feels like Bellamy, a mess of books and clothes, cool in the aggressively uncool way. He raises his eyebrows at her. “What, you don’t approve?”

“No, it’s perfect.” She flops back on his bed. “So, any tips on non-casual sex for me?”

He crowds on top of her, kissing her again, pulling away only long enough to tug her shirt off, and then he’s moving down her body, pressing his mouth against her throat, her sternum, onto the swell of her breasts above her bra. “I think this is actually where you tell me what you like,” he says.

“I don’t want you to give me crabs.”

He bites her breast gently. “You’re a fucking dick, Clarke.”

“Yeah.” She tangles her hand in his hair. “Do you have a specialty?”

“Not to brag, but I’m really good with my mouth,” he says, and pushes the cup of her bra down so he can tease her nipple with his tongue. “But I probably have some stiff competition from girls there.”

“You have no competition,” Clarke says. Someday, she’s going to have to figure out how long that’s been true, but it doesn’t seem pressing now. Not with Bellamy’s hand snaking around behind her to get the bra off so he has better access to her chest, switching his attention to her other breast.

“Don’t say that until I eat you out,” he says, smirking up at her.

“So eat me out,” she says, and he tugs her jeans down and rubs two fingers over her clit.

“You aren’t worried this is going to ruin our relationship as roommates?”

“It’s going to ruin it a lot more if you _stop_ ,” she says, and he laughs.

“Okay, good point,” he says. “Guess we just have to risk it.”

She doesn’t realize Wells got home at some point, not until after he eats her out, she jerks him off, he fingers her while they make out, and then he finally, _finally_ fucks her, murmuring how much he loves her against her neck, which is somewhere between perfect and overwhelming, given they’ve only been dating for a few hours. But–it’s _Bellamy_.

She finds Wells in the kitchen when she goes to get water, dressed only in one of Bellamy’s shirts and her underwear.

“Shit,” she says.

“Honestly, I’m amazed it took this long,” Wells says, with a rueful smile. “I can’t believe I slept with him first. Why do you think I didn’t tell you? He swore up and down nothing was going on with you.”

“Nothing was,” Clarke says. “It’s fine.”

“But this is a thing now, right? You guys.”

It feels like they’ve been _a thing_ for a lot longer than this, but she knows what he means. “Yeah. It’s a thing now.”

“Good.”

Clarke pecks him on the cheek. “We’ll try to keep it down.”

“Thanks.”

She flops back down next to Bellamy. “Wells is home. He wants us to be quiet and says he’s sorry he fucked you before I could.”

“Not before you could, just before you did.” He yawns. “You don’t mind, right?”

“Nah, I’m good,” says Clarke, snuggling in against his side, and it’s true. She really doesn’t care at all who slept with him first.

She’s going to sleep with him _last_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks! Happy New Year!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] All-Nighter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983870) by [knight_tracer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_tracer/pseuds/knight_tracer)




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